Lineage XI
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU! Jedi Apprentice. BOOK 11: The disastrous situation on Melida-Daan takes a turn for the worse; the Jedi dispatch a team to capture a dangerous murderer; and Qui-Gon Jinn and his former apprentice face the consequences of their rebellion. Series finale.
1. Chapter 1

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

It was with justifiable trepidation that Docent Vann committed the unthinkable violation of protocol her office presently demanded, a brash overstepping of bounds precious few – even among the full-ranking members of the Jedi Order – would have dared.

She interrupted the High Council in plenary session.

A mildly gifted Force-sensitive and an integral part of the Temple community since youth, she bravely withstood the brunt of gusting displeasure that whipped through the plenum at her unannounced entrance into the high circular chamber atop the southern spire. She kept her eyes fixed on Master Yoda, at the apex of the circle, studiously avoiding the sight of Master Windu's stern visage.

"I take it a crisis of _dire_ proportions has arisen, Docent?" the Korun master rumbled, his thunderous tone vibrant incentive to spit out the news and have done with it.

The unfortunate herald quailed in place, wringing her fingers together in a mannerism seldom seen within these hallowed walls. "Yes, Master… the door wardens wish for instruction. There is a supplicant upon the front steps – at the main gates. He has been kneeling there for hours, Masters, and he will not depart until he has spoken with you. He is very obstinate, and the wardens did not wish to leave their post."

At this, a frisson of curiosity rippled about the circle's perimeter as the gathered Councilors speculated upon the visitor's identity.

"A name, did he give?" Yoda inquired, clutching his gimer stick's haft in both gnarled hands.

Docent Vann swallowed. Rumor flew, even within the Temple precinct, and she was not guiltless of indulging in its prurient pleasures. Face coloring, she cleared her throat and awaited the inevitable explosion with mingled dread and anticipatory delight. _This _ would ruffle even the High Council's feathers.

"It is… it is Master Jinn."

The Order's most elite echelon did not disappoint. Adi Gallia gasped audibly; Ki Adi Mundi sat up straighter in his chair; Mace Windu's jaw twitched; Yan Dooku's blue hologram even seemed to blanch to a paler hue. A murmuring as of restless wind filled the Force. Only Master Yoda remained unperturbed, his ears unfurling to an expressive rigidity even as he sprang onto his clawed feet, pounding the stick against the inlaid marble floor.

"Qui-Gon, eh?" he cackled, stumping across the luminous space. "Qui-Gon, Hmmmph! Adjourned we are, until fourth chime. _Speak _with him, I shall. _Fine _discussion we shall have," he added, dangerously.

This snuffling pronouncement was as confounding to the gathered Masters as it was to hapless courier; the ancient Jedi stumped his creaking way into the adjacent lift shaft amid a chorus of murmurs and shocked expressions. And Docent Vann followed, eager to escape the penetrating stares of her far superiors.

Of course, she was even more unsettled by the Grand Master's wicked, wheezing chortle as they sped downward to the mezzanine levels and the main concourse leading to the Temple's formal grand entrance. Mercifully he saw fit to dismiss her at the base of the tower.

"Return to your other duties, you may," he rasped, waving the stick vaguely in her direction. "Require assistance to handle Qui-Gon Jinn, I do not."

* * *

"Would you let me _help_ you, for farks' sakes?"

Cerasi did not wait for reply, but launched her assault without further warning, seizing the dwindling tube of bacta ointment and the pressure bandage roll from her victim's fumbling grip before he could issue objection. She batted away his protesting hands and finished cleaning the oozing wound that marred his chest from collarbone to navel in one sinuous, half-healed line of angry, crusted red.

"….Ow, " came the grumpily issued rejoinder as she scrubbed at an offending patch of dried blood.

"I just don't understand why this won't _heal._ It's not infected, it's not deep, it's not _anything_ dangerous or complicated. Maybe this bacta's contaminated."

"It's not. I would be able to tell."

Cerasi's fists balled upon her hips. "Maybe you're overdoing it a bit… you were out _fourteen hours_ last night. I was worried."

Obi-Wan Kenobi shoved his overgrown hair out of his eyes with one hand and allowed himself the luxury of collapsing backward upon the flimsy palette in the drainpipe he called home. "I had a long way to go."

He did not mention that when he had wakened from the seizure, or coma, or whatever it was – the affliction that had come to haunt his days, recurring with greater and greater frequency, leaving him more and more exhausted and wrung out in its wake – he had been many klicks' hike outside the city, knee-deep in slain bodies of the Fallen, and with absolutely no recollection how he had come there or what had transpired in the meantime. Well, _almost _ no idea. The zombie warriors had, after all, clearly been decapitated and dismembered by a lightsaber blade. And he had been all alone.

He rubbed grit out of his eyes, and relaxed into the brusque routine of tending his perpetually unhealed wound. It was ludicrously, absurdly slow to mend… "How long has it been, Cerasi?" Somewhere in the midst of desperate strife, in the whirl of survival, he had lost count of days and weeks.

"It's been nine standard months," she replied, tightly "And no, no sign of Republic aid or intervention." A bitter snort. "Stop hoping for the impossible."

He scratched at his chin, resenting the prickling stubble that had already made an itching appearance in its cleft. He might as well let the beard grow out, he reflected. The blasted thing seemed determined to thwart his every pathetic effort at grooming. And the life that had hitherto dictated formal guidelines for his appearance seemed… a distant memory at best.

Or less than a memory – nine months and _no_ investigation, not even a Jedi Guardian sent to assess the situation? Not a scrap of communication, not a message of any kind? He had certainly been buried in the oblivion to which all Lost members of the Order were consigned, condemned to be a mere footnote to history as his present companions had been abandoned forty years ago and more. Melida-Daan was a graveyard, a place where the dead preyed upon the living and reigned in undisputed glory, a world dyed in the blood of defeat.

Not that he could stop fighting, any more than he could stop breathing.

"Nield is going to need your help later," Cerasi apologetically informed him. "Something about improvising more ammunition for the fighter.. and the starboard stabilizer's on the fritz again, he wonders if you two can hack it together again."

Obi-Wan nodded wearily. The Young fought hard to keep what little technology they had salvaged in working order; they fought harder to scrounge up enough edibles to sustain life. Trade ships had ceased arriving long ago… and with only the dead, who ate their own compatriots, on the surface, there was nothing else to steal. Starvation was a looming threat they had not yet discussed – but when the last hoarded cargo boxes were emptied, then what?

"Oh, and – I'm sorry, you're not going to like this either – we've got another situation brewing between the Melida and the Daan. Another altercation. With weapons."

"Lovely." He closed his eyes, blotting out the bleak stretch of grey duracrete above him, the brutally circumscribed bounds of his existence. Nine months of living together as desperate refugees form a ravening horde of undead soldiers, and the warring partisans had still not learned to coexist in harmony. Or even bare tolerance. His diplomatic skills had already been put to the severest test facilitating their tenuous accord, damping the wildfires of their vendetta. There was little more to be done but to punish the infraction with all the merciless vigor of martial law, of a ship's captain quelling a mutiny.

Cerasi finished dressing the wound. "It can wait a little longer," she assured him. "But not very."

He nodded once, vaguely, already clawing his way toward sleep like some blooded foxill limping and dragging its way back to the protection of a dark burrow. "I'll handle it," he slurred, disappearing into the warm hovel of oblivion with one last painful effort.

Sleep. Peace. Cessation.

At the very core of existence there shone a single ember of the Force, a smoldering shard of Light that would not be stamped out. He curled himself about its small, still presence and escaped – for a short while- the nightmarish demands of time and place.

* * *

"I am so sorry, Master Dooku," the Nemoidian lisped, insincerely. "We have absolutely no record of a Trade ship itinerary anywhere near Melida-Daan. As you may be aware, the planet has been under Republic interdiction for upwards of four –"

"I am _keenly_ aware of the legalities surrounding the issue," the Sentinel smoothly assured his nervous host. "And I did not ask whether your _records_ included such a delivery."

The reptilian swallowed, his fleshy throat bulging as his jaw slackened in dismay.

"I asked whether you _had sent_ a ship to make the specified delivery."

Now the Trade Federation envoy swelled indignantly, nictitating membranes flashing over glassy eyes. "If you are suggesting that we engage in illegal transactions or proscribed contractual arrangements – "

Dooku glowered, causing the cowardly Nemoidina to shrink into his seat. "I am not _suggesting_ any such thing. I know it to be the truth beyond a shadow of doubt. Now: the delivery. Who initiated it?"

"I, ah, there are no records-"

"Enough!" the Jedi master stood, black cloak cascading off his shoulders into the reflecting pool of his ire. "If you do not tell me, I shall identify your employer and pass on your kind regards instead."

"No, no no no!" the flustered Trade mogul whined. "That is not necessary… I do not wish my regards to be sent to anyone.. the contract was informal, if you follow my meaning… an agreement between friends…"

"Highly paid," Dooku translated. "Continue."

The reptilian's mottled hands twisted together in agitation. "The.. ah… Republic Defense Fund." An unhappy pause in which the Nemoidian's lipless mouth turned further downward at the corners. "We were promised _immunity, _ Master Jedi."

Yan Dooku's brows beetled together, his right hand sliding over the smooth saber hilt at his hip. "I see."

"If there is anything else we can do for you, of course, ah – please do not hesitate to ask. The Trade Federation is scrupulously committed to promoting the prosperity and internal security of the Republic."

The silver haired Jedi nodded once, tersely, and took his leave without another word, the stench of corruption thick in his nostrils, souring the back of his tongue. Republic Defense fund, indeed. Another hairline crack appeared in the foundation of his loyalties, a tiny scar across a monumental edifice of devotion.

He strode out of the sleek offices' foyer and onto the air-pad far above Coruscant's scintillating geometry, his gaze reaching of its own accord across the hazy distance to the distant spires of the Temple.

He decided to return to Council in person, given the day's unexpected… developments.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn waited.

And waited, and waited, his aching knee joints cursing him for his Jedi fortitude and resolve. The polished white marble beneath him warmed gently as the afternoon sun passed zenith and ascended over the Temple's massive ramparts, light glinting now in blinding intensity upon the pale steps to the grand ceremonial gates, upon the pale folds of the Ieng'lis' cloak draped over his shoulders. He knelt and waited, aware of the small pedestrian crowd gathering at the foot of the stairs, upon the broad public plaza below, of the door wardens' suspicious and uneasy regard, of another presence descending steadily, unhurriedly to meet him.

At last.

His heart skipped when the wizened green form stumped out from beneath the foundation's shadow and tapped its way forward.

_Clack. Clack. Scrap, clack…Clack._

"Hhhmph," Yoda welcomed him home. "Traditional this is, for you, Qui-Gon Jinn. And unusually humble."

"Yes, Master, I –"

He yelped like a stricken pup when the gimer stick caught him upside the head. He dared not raise a hand to feel whether the gnarled surface had broken the skin above his ear, but a warm trickle of moisture amid his silvering hair informed him that the blow had indeed been delivered with earnest precision.

The Grand Master snorted again. "Strayed you have."

He bent forward, pressing his forehead to the smooth marble at the ancient Jedi's clawed feet, a full kow-tow. "I beg pardon for my folly and crave a place of service in the Order's ranks." When no trenchant rebuttal met these words, he added heartfelt plea. "I have traveled far and learned much, my master."

Old Yoda emitted a grumbling sigh, a peevish complaint shared with the Force alone. "Come," he chuffed, turning his hunched back and leading the way back into the Temple, past the astonished door wardens, and into the Hall of Peace. "Long have you been absent, Qui-Gon. And much to answer for, you have."


	2. Chapter 2

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The inner doors parted to admit the unexpected, but not unfamiliar, figure of Qui-Gon Jinn – garbed in faded and stained Jedi uniform surmounted by a dazzling cloak of ivory silk. His long, silver fretted mane fell about his shoulders and framed his craggy face with its crooked nose and sloping brow. He strode to the center of the circle with his characteristic fluid confidence, and then halted, meeting the eyes of each Councilor present, silent entreaty written on a face that more often flew the standard of defiance.

And then he prostrated himself before them.

A spiraling silence ensued, in which the Force danced and surged with wordless exchanges between the gathered Masters. Mace Windu merely sat in his chair, fingers steepled, a tiny glint of grim amusement kindling behind his dark eyes. Yoda snuffed and wriggled and grunted to himself, then finally broke the weighted tension.

"Returned, Qui-Gon has, to beg for readmittance to Order," he rasped. "Hear his words, we will; a decision we will make, when deem it right we do."

Mace stirred impatiently. "Kneel, so we may speak to you," he ordered the supplicant.

The tall man complied with this request, rising halfway. His white cloak pooled and overflowed about him, a mantle of glimmering purity, in strange contrast to his weather-worn clothing and boots, the gaunt hollows beneath his cheeks, the weariness in his eyes. "Yes, my Master," he replied.

The Korun Jedi's brows rose, mute witness to his surprise and –perhaps- amusement at his childhood friend's show of humility and submission. "Two years ago, you stood before this same Council and blatantly defied our command. You left on a private quest, regardless of consequence to this Order or its individual members –" a pause in which the words _your padawan_ hung like curling smoke in the cool air – "and now you return to plead favor with us, once the dictates of your own will have been satisfied. I'm not impressed, frankly."

When no swift rebuttal to this barbed accusation was forthcoming, Mace glanced sideways at Yoda.

Qui-Gon frowned. "Two years…?" he repeated. "Surely not…?"

But Ki Adi Mundi laid the matter to rest. "Yes. Just shy of two years. I have the records of the relevant session here." He tapped the armrest of his chair, with its built-in data console.

The maverick said nothing, but a shocked realization dawned in the Force. "Forgive me," he murmured after a heavy pause. "I have lost count of days… I did not realize…"

"Blithering you are, Qui-Gon," Yoda harshly interjected. "What mean you?"

"I must have been in the company of the Whills for almost _nine months…_ it seemed only days to my perception."

Another impalpable susurration swept through the circle; Adi Gallia spoke first this time. "So you _did _ find the Shaman of the Whills. I will confess I thought your quest in vain."

Grateful for the small reprive from criticism, Qui-Gon dipped his head. "I found him. And I submitted myself to his teachings, as adept…"

Mace grunted. "And then why, pray tell, are you still here among us lowly mortals? I would think the last apprentice of the Whills would have better things to do than concern himself with mere _service_ and _compassion."_

"Master Windu," Yoda chided, holding up a clawed hand.

Mace nodded once and subsided, still brewing like a thunderstorm. He met the level gaze of his former compatriot with dark expectation.

"I was … released from his service," Qui-Gon explained, a tiny rueful smile hovering about his mouth. "A doctrinal difference, you understand."

A quirk of the lips, then a rumble in his throat, and without warning, the Korun master was laughing – aloud, in the Council chamber, without apology. It took him only a few seconds to reimpose control, but a savage and ironic delight still burned within his formidable aura. "You were expelled from the Order of the Whills for being an incurable _rogue?"_

The subject of this accusation held up his hands pacifically. "I fear it is true."

The Council was again struck silent, though a kind of pained mirth flitted like fluttermoths among the streaming shafts of afternoon sun. More than one carefully measured claming breath was released into the textured silence.

Finally Ki Adi Mundi leabed forward, his voice pitched low and reasonable. "But let us return to the matter at hand. Why is it you wish to resume your place in the Order? We have yet to hear your formal plea."

Qui-Gon bowed his head again. "Yes, my Master. Hear me out, I beg you."

* * *

"Violence," Nield thundered, "Is what landed our people in this situation to begin with! Yes, violence – Melida and Daan, not one or the other. And yes, _our_ people! Not _yours!_ Or _yours!"_ He thrust an impassioned hand at either side of his captive audience, singling out members of either party. "And now we face the greatest danger yet to rear its ugly head on this world, and you continue your petty squabbles down here, where we have labored for _decades_ to create peace and safety? It's not tolerable! It endangers all of us!"

Obi-Wan stood behind, focused exclusively upon his own breathing. What came next was… distasteful. And yet there was no hope of controverting the execution of rough justice. Nield finished his harangue, outlining the gravity of the offense, the danger of sparking another war here beneath the surface, of destroying every last one of the planet's already pathetically few living inhabitants. Gone was the calm and resigned Nield of months previous; a new, passionate and terrified man had taken his place, a desperate leader for a desperate crew of survivors, a society comprised of guerilla warriors and battle hardened cynics and a handful of wide-eyed, silent childen who absorbed the bitter lessons of this existence like plants soaking up acid rain.

The young Jedi shut it all out, centering on the space between inhalation and release. Any moment now…

"Bring the perpetrators forward," Neild ground out. He turned to Obi-Wan then, a hand touching his elbow. "I'm sorry, mate. It has to be. It's this or everyone starts killing each other tomorrow morning."

The assembled company was waiting upon the sentence and its swift descent.

"Fighting with weapons. Ten lashes apiece," Nield ground out. "This _must stop! _Do you hear me?"

.The two malfeasants were hustled forward – each man by his own compatriots, Melida and Daan exhibiting exclusive solidarity even in this – and stripped of their ragged shirts. Obi-Wan's stomach flipped. It had been determined long ago that he was the safest choice – a true outsider, an objective presence with no roots in the ageless strife, the only person who might be tolerated as arbiter of punishment. And there were few other options- they had no prison, nor could they afford the effort of patrolling one. To release a man on the surface amounted to death. There were no privations they did not already suffer communally. Which left physical pain.

He looked out over the crowded subterranean chamber, to the back wall where Cerasi stood by the rear entrance. She smiled at him, sympathetically, a mute consolation and encouragement. He snorted to himself. From Galactic _peacekeeper_ to … this. How the mighty had fallen. And fallen, and fallen, wallowing in the blood-trampled mire of their former ambition.

_You were always doomed to spectacular failure,_ the never absent voice of the Other taunted him. _You've known it since childhood. _

He drowned out this unwelcome commentator by doing his repulsive duty. Neild handed him the whip, and he made short work of the task, his mind barricaded behind aching shields, the men's screams and cries relegated to the murmur of outward noise, the meaningless chatter of this narrow and ill-fated existence. When he was done, and the uproar in the room rose to smother out all sounds but his own deep, steadying breaths, he handed the vile instrument back to Nield with a deep scowl, and fled for the dubious refuge of the upper world.

_You could enjoy that if you let yourself._

"Don't conflate your own perverse pleasures with mine."

_Why maintain the charade? You aren't Jedi any more, and they aren't coming for you. This world is your pyre, unless you fight harder. These men will die unless you save them, and to save them, you must rule them., And to do that, you must make them fear you._

" I said, no!"

Cerasi had anticipated his reaction. She stood at the exit tunnel, his favorite means of egress, arms folded across her chest. "You just came back. You're not going out again. The Fallen are wandering this sector."

His hands brushed over his saber hilts."I don't fear them." _I only fear myself._

She sighed, despondently. "Don't do this. We need you here… there will be other disputes now. We need you to help mediate, keep the peace… please."

_Out. We're going out. Now. _ Already green mist and black haze were creeping at the margins of his vision. Another episode, coming on strong, so hard on the heels of the last. He gritted his teeth, too entrenched in resistance to explain. "NO. I have to go."

A deep intuition drove him away from the Young every time the malady manifested its symptoms. What might befall those around him were he to… lose control… while still beneath the surface, he dared not imagine. An image of slaughtered Fallen Ones rose to mind, their pustulent corpses scored and burned with a thousand 'saber strokes, the maddened frenzy of a _monster. _"I have to go, Cerasi! Now!"

She touched his face. "I wish I could help."

"You can't" The words cam out clipped, edged with anger. "I'm sorry. – I have to go."

And so he did, pushing past her with an apologetic backward glance, heading for the open killing fields above, where Darkness and hatred flooded unchecked, wandered in the guise of undead infantry, clotted the very Force with turgid poison. Where, should the enemy seize him utterly, he could not harm any innocents.

He sprinted like a wild beast fleeing a ravenous predator – and made it less than a klick from the grated outlet before the raging tide of sickly green-black ink overwhelmed him and sucked him under, a thunderclap ringing in his ears before he lost hold of self and consciousness utterly.

* * *

"Deliberate upon your fate, we must," Yoda grumbled, propping his wrinkled chin atop his blunt stick, both hands curled about its rough haft. "Confined to this Temple you are, though free to wander inside its halls. Quartermaster will assign temporary quarters."

Qui-Gon nodded his acquiescence. "Thank you, Master." He hesitated, turning briefly toward Yan Dooku, who sat silent and inscrutable at the circle's far end. "There is one.. request,,, I would beg of you."

"You are entitled to no favors," Mace reminded him. "But ask."

The tall Jedi master inhaled, grounding himself in the Force. "My Padawan –"

"Former Padawan," Mace cut across him.

"Yes." Another pleading glance at Dooku. "Am I right in assuming, Master, that you claimed right of lineage and took him under your own tutelage?"

The Korun's face hardened further. "The internal affairs of this Order are _not_ your present concern, Qui-Gon."

Yoda cleared his throat noisily. "Late you arrive, Qui-Gon."

"I only wish to see him… to speak with him. I owe him as much apology as I do this Council."

"Rather more, I would think," Dooku purred. "But the point is moot. You will not be able to speak to him."

By a miracle of the Force, Qui-Gon contained his explosive resentment and fear. He locked eyes with his own former mentor, plumbing those grey and ambiguous depths for explanation, for meaning, his heart plummeting as he found sorrow and regret emblazoned therein. "What has happened?" he demanded.

No answer.

He turned back to Yoda, beseechingly. "What has happened?" Consuming dread spread like wildfire in his viscera. Not Obi-Wan. No. Force, what had he done?

"Gone, he is," the ancient one chuffed. "Relinquished his place in the Order."

Qui-Gon's chest rose and fell visibly, disbelief and pain scoring deep lines into his face. "Where is he now?" he croaked, on the edge of an unseemly display.

Dooku sighed heavily, his own face composed in strictly controlled lines. "In the Force, if he is fortunate. But I do not think destiny has been so kind to him."

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

He woke bathed in the salt moisture of his own panic, the night's prickling fingers stroking chill over his flesh. The Force eddied, sluggish and gorged with malice, a clear stream laden with a polluting sludge. He dared not partake of it, and he also cursed himself for leaving the Young's enclave without a water bottle. His throat was parched, and there was no clean source to be found up here – not for many klicks.

A sickly green still seemed to snake along the ground, though he knew it to be _within,_ a thing exuded from him like oozing blood, a byproduct of his violation. The moons laughed down upon him, upon the scattered rubble of this back alley, upon his plight.

At least there were no corpses tonight. He had not encountered the Fallen after all.

He stood shakily and considered returning to the underground headquarters… but that restless spirit which had so often earned him censure would not now be contained. He had to confess to a degree of cabin fever, besides his other afflictions. And there was a groundwell outside the city walls, a place where real and pure water might be coaxed up out of some deep aquifer. The thought of its sweet mineral sharpness appealed to him, and he started his pilgrimage to that cleansing shrine in higher spirits, the cold air whipping his hair and playing with the long unbound strands that hung behind his right ear, the badge of his unmaking.

It was a long walk, but a blessedly lonely one, the zombie hordes perhaps wandering in other districts tonight. Their numbers had decreased – many had fallen to pieces with the slow rotting progression of time; others had been felled, in droves, in slaughterhouse piles, by his own blades. He was tired of the ceaseless executions, the dispatching of the already-dead. He was tired of slow starvation and the hopeless wait for assistance that would never come. He was, in fact, simply tired.

The stars were visible tonight, and he turned his face upward to the spangled field above, the Republic's uncaring dominion. He stared back with defiance, and with entreaty. Why had the Council sent _no one,_ nothing at all? But no, it was best not to think about that. He walked on, passing through the wrecked and ruinous gates, and onto hard-packed soil without, a few scrub bushes and hardy weeds peeking through the miserable crust.

And stopped.

Overhead, as though answering a prayer, a single shooting star streaked across the ecliptic – but a second look told him it was neither no meteor after all. He was well –seasoned and far-travled enough to distinguish a starship's hull and thruster array from any other object in the night sky. It curved downward, toward a distant landing place over the horizon, too far to walk but a short distance by swoop or speeder. His heart labored beneath his ribs, exhuming a hope he had but recently buried.

Could it be?

And then, because miracles know not moderation, a second ship appeared and arced downward on a slightly different trajectory, one suggesting stealth and a wish not to be sighted. It too disappeared over the ragged line of hills and was gone.

But the sight stayed with him a long time, even after he found the well and drank greedily of the meager dregs he was able to pump up from its echoing depths. Friend or foe, it little mattered who the newcomers might be. Tomorrow he would take the fighter out, with Nield – or perhaps without Nield – and investigate. Surely the serendipitous arrival heralded a change in fortunes, a slim chance of salvation for the Young and those under their protection.

He threw caution to the winds and opened himself to the Force, seeking desperately for the confirmation of his wildest, most unlikely dream…

And gasped. For there, clearly, questing through the plenum for _him_ just as surely as he hounded after it_,_ another presence, a bright and blinding star in the universal Life, a trained Force user, a mind as keen and brightly honed as any constellation, a jolting reminder of destiny and identity.

"Moll," he breathed. The Iktotchi Sentinel's unique Force signature was familiar to him, as readily identifiable as the acrid scent of a particular herb.

He wept, then, too overwhelmed to spare a thought for the second ship or to wonder at its significance.

* * *

He had been given run of the Temple, and yet he had no heart to reacquaint himself with its peace. The sanctuary of Light seemed skewed, slightly warped and dimmed without that one presence, or perhaps in the knowledge of his absence. Qui-Gon's steps carried him to the arboretum's broad doors, but he paused there, unable to cross the threshold.

He beat a retreat to the map room, but the blanketing dark mocked him, the glimmer of systems and nebulae a hollow whirl of meaningless lights. He haunted the residential levels, avoiding any who would speak to him by pulling his hood far over his face, but his restless perambulations found no terminus.

At last, fruitless hours having flowed into time's ocean, he found himself standing before the once familiar door in the upper west wing, a sepulture hush reigning in the dim hallways. It was far past sunset, and the corridor steeped in a contemplative quiet, an aggressive reserve.

How he had hated this place as a Padawan.

The panel slid open before his descending knuckles could brush the hard surface.

"Come in, Qui-Gon. I've been expecting you."

He slipped beneath the doorframe and took stock of the severe elegance of Dooku's private quarters: the ebony table, the neatly arranged meditation cushions, the inset shelves with their panoply of mementos and trophies, real vellum books and bizarre artifacts, the deep rug upon the polished floor, and of course the man himself.

Dooku's idea of dishabille was still an exercise in formality. His simple black tunic was unbuttoned at the collar, his belt and tabards dispensed with. That was all. In his hand balanced a delicate wine-glass, more than half full of burgundy liquid.

The door slid shut with a soundless finality.

"Sit down, my old padawan," Dooku suggested, a slight ironic emphasis on the word _old._

The tall man folded himself down at the table, and watched as a full glass was poured for him. The deep red wine tickled at his nostrils, astringent and yet seductively mellow. He wondered where the Sentinel had acquired the obviously costly vintage, and then decided he did not need the knowledge. "Tell me," he sighed. "Let me hear it from you first."

Dooku took a deep draught, his focus parsecs away. "As I have always told you, he is a remarkable man." He fondled the thin stem of his glassware.

"Then why did you abandon him?"

The hypocritical words tumbled out haplessly, sharp as jagged splinters, and shattered on the darkly reflective surface between them. Dooku idly traced a pattern in the burnished tabletop, stirring the absurd accusation as though sifting for aurodium. A thin smile. "Is that a question you of all people need ask?"

The bitter truth of this soured the wine in his mouth. Qui-Gon set his glass down, still full. "He would not accompany me. I had no right to demand his sacrifice…. And now I find that he has made it nonetheless, for reasons and persons unknown."

Dooku's shoulders rose in an eloquent shrug. "I daresay your _death_ was a contributing factor."

"My death…?"

"You are cognizant that your name has been entered in the annals of the departed. There was, naturally, no funeral – given the circumstances of your, ah, departure, but-"

"Obi-Wan thought I was dead."

"He felt it." The Sentinel polished off his glass. "You do have a flair for making dramatic exits when it suits you, Qui-Gon; collateral damage is only to be expected." A half-second's pause, in which he took careful aim. "I won't burden you with the details. Let us say that the boy suffers from a propensity for great _attachment."_

The tall man bowed his head. How _oblivious_ he had been… perhaps by choice. "Where is he now?"

Dooku's face stilled, an unfamiliar cloud-shadow passing over the surface of his composure. Then he rose and fetched the bottle and served himself another full glass – a somewhat affected and absurd gesture, for a Master of his high rank and skill would effectively _never_ manage to reach the point of intoxication unless he purposefully dampened his own Force connection.

"I shall compact the tale for sake of both our sensibilities. The salient points are these: Syfo-Dyas has been eliminated. Kenobi was an integral part of that mission, but obstinately chose to remain behind on Melida-Daan despite the manifest danger and futility of aiding its denizens, and his own compromised condition. There was, and is, an army of reanimated corpses at loose upon the planet's surface, and of course no lifeline of supplies or food. They are doomed."

Qui-Gon's glass spontaneously exploded, spattering red droplets over the table and his hands. "What?"

Dooku's piercing glare dared further challenge. "You are in no position to level _blame_ at anyone, Qui-Gon. It was your broken oath that precipitated this entire debacle. I _tried_ to guide the boy on his path, but _you_ had already wrought irremediable damage to his character."

"_What?"_

A derisive snort. "DO not feign innocence. Your young friend chose to serve the tyranny of his own sentiment rather than obey the dictates of duty and authority. I think we need not inquire whence he learned such lamentable habits."

"And you left him to _die!"_

A silver brow twitched upward. "What I have done to remedy the situation is surely in excess of your own efforts," Dooku smoothly countered, a chill acerbity to his tone. "Do not lecture me on the duty of a _teacher,_ when you still have so very, very much to learn."

And that Makashi strike may as well have opened him from throat to belly, a searing brand of dishonor wrought by his own madness and folly. Qui-Gon stood, and bowed, and swept out, his shame clinging to him like an irrepudiable shadow.

* * *

"I'm famished. And I have news."

Cerasi did not want to hear it. "_Damn_ you for leaving! I told you we needed you, and you go haring off on some private lark… the children. We've lost two of them. They're missing."

He halted in mid-stride, cold settling beneath his solar plexus. "What? Who?"

She swallowed. "Zilla, and little Teo. They've wandered out. Please- somebody has to find them. The scouts haven't picked up a trace… this isn't the first time they've gone out of bounds, but the Fallen are _everywhere._ Please."

He breathed in, out. _Not good. _ Children missing, above ground? Did they not know that an unpredictable _monster_ lurked amid the ruins of the capitol, a merciless killer? What if…? A sudden vertigo seized him, a deafening fear churning in his gut, and then – almost a relief from _that_ thought - the cramping hand of a different certitude. "It's a … retribution."

"What do you mean?"

"The Melida and the Daan – payback for the men who were punished. They've taken revenge on the children. On the Young."

Cerasi stared at him, appalled. "That's crazy. I don't believe it. I mean, we're all one thing now." They couldn't afford to dissolve into strife again, a three-way enmity.

How could he argue for the infallibility of his gift? He _was_ sometimes wrong, but here on this hateful world his sense of wrong was unerring, the scrawled obscenities of petty wickedness as clear to him as stark graffiti upon bare walls. "Then don't," he snapped. "I'll go now. I'll find them."

Hopefully he would find them alive. He paused halfway back up the tunnel. "And it would be best if you keep this secret. Don't let whomever is responsible know that they've scored a hit."

Cerasi's emerald eyes hardened. "I'll hush it up. Even though we don't have secrets here!" she hollered after him.

"We do now," he muttered, forcing his overtaxed limbs to carry him up and out into the unforgiving dawn in search of the lost children.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

They were alive.

_Thank the Force, thank the Force. _ The gibbering happiness that welled from his inmost core at this discovery surprised even him; surely he was too jaded to celebrate such a minor victory? The children might well die anyway, the first victims of encroaching starvation, or internecine warfare beneath the surface. He steadied himself, wondering whether a person teetering on the brink of hysteria was capable of prior self-assessment? –and then realized that the relief, the giddy sense of disaster averted, sprung not so much from finding his young friends in one piece as the certitude that they had not fallen to his blade in a blind frenzy.

He remembered nothing of last night after he had passed out. He might have slain _innumerable_ foes and never recalled it. One day – last month – he had staggered back to the Young coated head to toe in gore, his every muscle aching, following a trail of carnage a solid mile long back to his place of origin. Nield had cleaned him up, and left him alone, awed and disturbed, and later told him that the body count for Fallen had been in excess of two hundred, a feat worthy of some ghastly epic. It was after that night that he had started fearing himself, doubting whether he were master of his own mind, or whether the _thing_ that had festered within him since his horrible encounter with Sifo-Dyas and his borrowed Dathomiri magics were slowly gaining the upper hand.

_You're losing this battle,_ his alter ego observed, pitilessly objective as ever.

_I prefer to think of it as not winning at the moment._

"Bi-Wan! Bi-Wan!" Zila's shrill voice interrupted his thoughts. "Here here here!"

He ducked beneath the lip of the blasted metallic dumpster in which they had taken shelter, gagging a little on the scent of years-old refuse. Teo was there too, sucking his thumb in a small miserable ball. He felt the tiny boy's limbs for injury, then brushed a hand over Zilla's matted nest of hair. "How long have you been here?"

Zilla blinked at him, fingers curling in his sleeve, hands clutching at his bicep. "Forever."

He released a bitter breath of laughter. They were several districts from the nearest entry to the underground network. The Young had blocked off and collapsed most avenues to their subterranean warren – too many escape routes were difficult to patrol, and invited foes to wander inside. Someone must have carried the children far, in an attempt to good and truly lose them in this duracrete jungle. Only his Force abilities had enabled him to track down these two glimmering points of life amid the perpetual shadow… the kidnapping had been equivalent to murder.

"Hungry," Zilla whined.

"I'm sorry, I haven't any food. Come. We need to get back home. I'll carry Teo. You have to walk, Zilla, Can you do that for me?"

She plopped down on her soft posterior, and stubbornly thrust out her lower lip. Obi-Wan sniffed again, grimly realizing that both younglings were still in changing cloths, and had manifestly not been _changed_ in recent memory.

"No walk," Zilla informed him, petulant.

Force help him, he was _not_ carrying _two_ soiled and sulking and hungry toddlers all the way across the city. There was a time and a place for scruples, and then there was raw expediency.

He waved a hand in front of her face. "You want to walk. Walking will be great fun. Let's go _now."_

"Go now!" the unfortunate victim of his mind influence repeated, springing to her chubby feet, which were shoeless and already begrimed and covered in small cuts and bruises.

"Yes, a fine idea. I wish I had thought of it myself," he quipped, hoisting Teo's limp form into his arms and casting a cautious glance outside the makeshift hovel. "Stay _right next _ to me."

* * *

The hologram descended from the ceiling mounted projector as the windows' automatic blinds rolled into place.

"Master Moll," Yoda addressed the shimmering effigy of the Iktotchi Sentinel. "Safely arrived on Melida-Daan you have. What report do you bring us?"

The Shadow's sloping cranial horns framed his angular features in harsh lines. His pale eyes glinted beneath jutting brows. "The orbital sentries are still operational, and may explain why the first two droid probes were unable to enter atmosphere."

"Continue," Mace urged him.

Yarriss Moll nodded, hands sliding into voluminous sleeves. "The more problematic question was that of the Service Corps vessel the Council authorized to enter the system one month ago."

Adi Gallia tilted her head, pendant headdress sliding over her shoulders. "There was no official authorization," she corrected him.

A sly exchange of looks between the Sentinel and Yan Dooku. The horned Jedi nodded. "Of course; I spoke without thought. That ship was instructed to make a drop from atmosphere, over the capitol. They are trained in emergency relief procedures; it seemed unlikely their mission would be aborted for any reason but direst threat to their well-being."

"No communication has been received from that ship since," Dooku reminded him. "Have you discovered its fate?"

"I checked the orbital debris fields first," Moll replied. "Remains of their vessel were not identifiable, so I initiated a surface scan. It took some time, but I have located their shipl."

He hesitated here, and the Force tautened in warning.

"What has happened, Moll?" the Korun Councilor prompted.

The Sentinel's thin mouth hardened into a straight line. "The Service Corps vessel was forced to make a landing. There was extensive damage to the shielding and damper systems, suggestive of high power cannon."

"The orbital sentries?" Ki Adi asked, dubiously.

"Perhaps." Moll passed a hand over his chin. "The ship appears to have set down close to the capitol. Likley a forced crash along their initial trajectory. From the condition of the vessel, I would say the landing was effected with minimal injury to the crew and passengers."

"Are they still there?" Adi inquired.

Here Moll's stern visage rumpled into a scowl. "They were all slain. I discovered them inside the ship. There were no survivors."

"The Fallen," Dooku murmured.

His Iktotchi associate turned his startling eyes upon the speaker. "No, Yan," he said, heavily. "They were killed by lightsaber blade. And the bodies were desecrated."

* * *

"Gods! You found them!" Nield's voice melted with gratitude. And then he wrinkled his nose. "Hell's moons… let's find somebody else to handle this, eh?"

The toddlers were all but catatonic with fright by the time they arrived home. Zilla's short stride and flagging strength, and the need to circuitously wend their way home, avoiding the migrant Fallen Ones, had extended the journey to nightmarish lengths. Obi-Wan gratefully yielded his charges over to more competent hands and sank onto a sagging bench in an empty corner.

"Thanks," Nield said, gripping his shoulder. "What would we do without you?"

The young Jedi rested his head in his hands. "This was a warning. One or both of the partisans resents our imposition of rule. There's going to be trouble, Nield."

"You're telling me," the Young's unofficial leader snorted. "…Chisszzzk." He fished a smokestick out of a pocket. "Good news and bad news. That last crate of supplies in the warehouse wasn't food after all. That's the bad news. We're even shorter on rations than we thought."

Obi-Wan absorbed this numbly.

"Good news: it was pack full of Grade AA bacci. Smoke?"

He accepted the inhalant without complaint. Anything. Anything at all, in this place. They lit the thin rolls and sucked down the pink smoke greedily, commiserating without the need of words. Nield sat down beside him, knocking ash onto the filthy floor between their boots. "Cerasi said you had news earlier, but didn't get around to sharing."

Force! He had forgotten… his mind was a disintegrating web, a kaleidoscopic whirl of different selves, mirroring each other, blending at the edges, but never quite achieving coherence. Perhaps he was sicker than he supposed… but that didn't matter at the moment.

"I have good news, too. A ship landed last night, a few longitudes away."

Nieldd chuckled darkly. "You fantasizing about more bacci or something better?"

"No." A vibrant longing, pitched to a maddening intensity, drove away all thought of humor. "It's another Jedi. The Council must have sent someone… at last. He doesn't know quite where to look. I'm going to take the fighter and make contact. This could change everything."

Nield ground out the butt of his smokestick and leaned his head against the wall. "Don't kid yourself. They want you to leave."

This possibility –as obvious as it was – had not yet occurred to the younger man. He frowned over it, pondering its implications.

"Look," Nield muttered. "I would not blame you. Sometimes you have to know when to abandon a sinking ship."

"I'm not abandoning anyone!" Obi-Wan protested, tossing his own smoldering stick onto the floor and crushing it beneath his boot heel. "I'm going to ask for help. They _must_ listen… and it's someone I know. A … colleague of my master. Moll is fair and just. He'll know what to do. The very fact that he's here is evidence of a shift in Republic policy, or at least of the Order's involvement."

"Whatever," Nield responded. "But if you want the ship you're gonna have to help me jimmy-rig that damned stabilizer again."

The stabilizer. With a groan, Obi-Wan released his last faint hope of sleeping anytime soon. "Yes, all right."

Nield grinned. "Good. Want another?"

Obi-Wan clambered to his feet. "No. Those things are terrible for you." He rubbed a crick out of his neck and led the way to the improvised hangar bay.

"Hypocrite," Nield muttered, jogging to catch up.

* * *

Light again poured opulently through the panoramic windows, painting the exquisite inlaid floor in mute radiance, picking out the delicate curve of leaf, of winged flame, of ageless pattern in the polished marble.

The Jedi Council, however, remained eclipsed by a cold penumbra.

Yan Dooku broke the pensive silence. "Moll is capable," he said, grey eyes shadowed by a weariness beyond measure. "there is no need to send reinforcements."

Ki Adi Mundi looked upon his colleague with compassion. "With due respect, our first aim should be to capture, not kill. For such an operation, it would be wise to send another team. Superior numbers have the advantage of greater flexibility."

"I agree," Mace Windu rumbled. "And the Dark Side is a powerful ally. What might have been within Moll's capacity before… this, may no longer be so. It would be safer to send another Master."

Yoda grumbled and chuffed, eyes hooded. "Obscured, is this world. Hidden in the Force, shrouded by Darkness. Say, I cannot, what is to be expected. Another team we will send."

"I'll do it," Mace volunteered, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face.

"Needed here you are."

"Then I shall go," Dooku offered. "Moll and I work in tandem often. And it is my duty, under the circumstances."

"No." the Grand Master shook his head, wisping silver crown flickering upon his crenallated skull like an ethereal white flame. "Too much lies unresolved between you. Hope to bring him back to Coruscant, I do; a more neutral party, we must send.."

Adi Gallia stirred in her seat, striking cerulean eyes limpid with grief. "This is a tragedy I never hoped to see; indeed, I can barely believe the truth of Moll's report."

Mace glowered. "The evidence is damning enough."

The Tholothian woman raised her chin. "Indeed. And yet, there is other evidence besides that of the senses. I should be the one to go."

Yoda grumbled deep in his throat.

"You know why, Master," Adi addressed him, directly. She received only grudging nod of assent in reply.

"You have confidence of your ability to succeed in this endeavor?" Mace asked. "If he has Turned, then he has become a _dangerous_ adversary."

But Adi was not to be deterred. "I will take my Padawan. She and Kenobi share an… emotional connection."

And that clinched the argument, after the initial wave of disapproval had subsided.

"I see." Mace steepled his fingers. "Very well – an unorthodox gambit, but worth the risk. You will depart immediately. Meet Yarriss Moll at his present coordinates, and make plans as you see fit. Your first mandate is to subdue and arrest. If that proves impossible… he must be destroyed."

Adi Gallia nodded, solemnly. "I understand."

"I too grieve that this has happened," Mace added, his baritone softening with regret. "But a Dark Jedi of his skill is something with which we cannot afford to deal lightly."

"So be it," Yoda grunted, sighing noisily, seeming to shrink into a gnomish lump under the weight of revelation.

Yan Dooku rose, face drawn and pale, and excused himself from the Circle with a short bow. His firm footfalls echoed across the sun-drenched floor as he crossed the solemn chamber and disappeared into the anteroom without a word of parting.

And none followed after to offer shallow sympathy or needless counsel. There were some failures, and some truths, that could only be faced in the pitiless solitude of the Force.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

The Room of a Thousand Fountains was home to a plethora of small living creatures besides tree and bush, vine and delicate flower. Flutterwings and bezzils droned among the greenery, tiny avians fluttered hither and yon, a few stray lizards and bright-eyed, fleet-footed furry things had wandered or been smuggled in by eager initiates and padawans over the countless generations, and founded dynasties of their own. The occasional larger pest was occasionally subjected to a gentle eviction by the diligent staff, but in general the teeming oasis of life was harbor and sanctuary to a wide variety of peaceable life forms seldom found within a single ecosystem, much as the halls of the Temple were populated by beings from every corner of the known Galaxy.

The Order was truly cosmopolitan, the progeny of countless generations' expansion and refinement of culture. The gardens were the embodiment of this breadth and sophistication, the delicate balance of gracious nature and the vital discipline of artifice.

And sometimes they were also backdrop to discord.

"What do you _mean _ a team was sent?" Qu-Gon Jinn hissed, his long stride easily overtaking his companion. He blocked the ancient one's path, dropping to one knee to bring the wizened troll to eye-level. "Why was I told nothing of this? Why was _I _ not sent? Surely I am best suited to speak to him… to find him… I should have been sent!"

Yoda's gimer stick poked him in the thigh. "Obedience, Qui-Gon! Great show of humility and repentance you make, but what of obedience, hmm? Stay here you will, and interfere you will not. Because _say so I do."_

The tall maverick visibly bristled. "This is my padawan we speak of! A matter of life and death! You cannot pretend to make this some perverse test of loyalties!"

The Grand Master drew back, affronted, his ears perking in annoyance, his eyes narrowing. "Test of loyalties!" he chuffed, peevishly. "Exactly." His rasping tone dropped an octave, lending him a wild, demonic air. "Your _former_ padawan, or the Order, do you value more highly, Qui-Gon Jinn? No concern of yours is his fate now: abandoned him by the roadside you did long ago. Your own fate you should be more worried about."

But Qui-Gon was not so easily swayed. "The teaching bond between master and student is the _foundation_ of the Order, Master, and you know it. There is _no_ Jedi Order to serve without that sacred lineage. You taunt me with a fallacy."

Yoda's snub nose wrinkled, his lined face puckering in acute displeasure. "Lecture me _not_ on the foundations of this Order!" he snapped. "_Two_ of your padawans, into Darkness have fallen. Impress me your vaunted wisdom does not."

The ruthless strike was driven home hard. Had he been impaled upon a saber's blade, Qui-Gon would have no less agonized a reaction. He gasped, choking back a hot retort that died on his lips. His shoulders slumped into a miserable double slope, his head bowed.

"I …. Forgive my arrogance, Master."

The ancient Jedi relented, slightly. "Stay here you will. Show due obedience you will. And prepared you must be to let this one go. Unclear is his future; cling not to the past, Qui-Gon. Nor to Obi-Wan. If Turned he has, then gone forever is the boy you trained. Consumed by the Dark Side."

"Surely there is hope." Desperation roughened Qui-Gon's mellow tones.

"No," the gimer stick pounded impatiently into the graveled walkway, scattering small pebbles. "Once down its twisted path he strays, forever will the Dark dominate his destiny."

The tall man raised two hands to his face, hiding his shame.

"And if fallen he has, then no master of this Order are you. Into shadow has your line descended, unworthy of continuance. If guilty of this obscenity he is, then _failed him utterly_ you have."

* * *

The fighter was a rattling and neurotic wreck, a shadow of its former self – but it served the purpose. Obi-Wan skimmed along Melida-Daan's scarred surface, mindful of the depleted fuel gauge. This reconnaissance run would cut severely into their last reserves- but surely it was worth the investment? Yarriss Moll was here, and that meant the Order has re-initiated contact.

The Republic comm-sat beacon was still active; his navigation system easily located and locked on to the Sentinel's ship. A new model Courier with hyperdrive capability and enough space in the aft compartment for six passengers. Fast, new, beautiful, functional, it stood out like a gem fallen amid a filthy sty. He circled, once, twice, and opted for a cautious landing a few hundred meters off.

A brief signal via the ship-to-ship elicited no answer. Curious, he popped the canopy open and vaulted out of the cramped cockpit, stretching his taut muscles in a leisurely full back bend. The Force ran high, a river in flood, rolling boulders along tumultuous banks. Light and Dark commingled, sliding over one another like mottled shadow over sunlit water. He sank into the current, then withdrew, wary of the chaos and clamor surrounding his inward senses.

Something was not right here…

Moll's ship stood primly to one side, the boarding hatch down. He bounded up its length, calling for the Sentinel by name, lowering his shields a trifle to broadcast his friendly intentions, his identity. "Master? Master Moll?"

No answer.

The hold was vacated, the cockpit unoccupied. He reached into the Force, questing, to discover that the Sentinel had departed in a hurry- in a state of great perturbation, even – in _that _ direction.

Obi-Wan frowned over this, checking the nav console and the flight log, the comm array. There was no obvious explanation for the Jedi master's abrupt departure, only a trickling sense of _imbalance_ creeping over him as inevitably as nightfall. Green mist swirled in the back of his mind, inviting, cloying, threatening. The sense of imbalance became physical vertigo, a tilting of the decks beneath his feet, a roaring in his ears.

He quickly descended the ramp and knelt upon the hard earth, mooring himself back in immediate reality. Not now – he couldn't succumb now. He needed to find Moll first, to beg his assistance.

He stood again, and faced the line of tumbled hills beyond. Over there, somewhere, lay the answer. He wobbled forward, determined to see his mission through to the end before the rising darkness claimed him again. Moll would surely stop him, if he were to… If there were to be complications. And suddenly, in light if this consideration, Yarriss Moll seemed suddenly to take on the aspect of shelter and safety, of all the wisdom and nurturing the Order had ever represented to him, a sure harbor from the evil presence that opened its maw to swallow him, that sought to drown and smother him in its unwelcome folds. He stumbled forward faster then, driven by the simple need of a child seeking its parent, a bird returning to roost.

Until he hit a wall of purest malice and skidded to a panting halt.

A presence radiating evil like a furnace… an incarnation of the planet's hatred… the awful mirror-self of his nightmares enfleshed and localized…

He clutched his head, keeling over. Green mist engulfed him, laughing maniacally as it dragged him under, a thousand sirens' voices chanting black incantations in his ears: _Korah. Mata. Yoodah. Korah. _

"Nooo!" he screamed, floundering and struggling in vain.

And the black waves closed over his head once more, consuming him, possessing him, splitting him wide apart along the open wound carved upon his chest and belly. Surely he was torn in two… dark and light, self and Other, past and future, Jedi and monster… Horribly, impossibly, he saw himself – a parody of himself, a twisted mockery of himself - striding like a colwar upon the hills' dark ridge, swathed in blackest shadow, crowned with a lurid coronet, diadem of the Dark Side, his twin sabers now flickering red, blood crimson and hot, hot to the touch, consuming fire hatred death revenge revenge revenge…

He thrashed and struggled, green tendrils constricting about his limbs, about his chest, squeezing away the power to resist, to think, to see, cutting off self from self, tearing him asunder until he shrieked with the burning pain of it, the scission of body and will, heart and mind, identity and choice.

The thing, the leering Un-self disappeared over a far ridge and was gone, a black sun setting upon some hellish horizon. The pressure tearing him apart peaked, thundering higher than his resistance, an obliterating tide. He curled inward to his very core, where indomitable Light kindled, the tiniest spark shining amid the hurricane strife, and released out his last sobbing breath.

And night descended.

* * *

"What?" Siri Tachi sprang to her feet, a furious splotch of color staining either cheek, her brilliant blue eyes glittering with a fire-forged resentment. "_How_ can you ask me to do such a thing, Master?"

Adi Gallia exhaled slowly, allowing her student's distress to wash over her, dissipate in the Force's tranquil currents. "Sit, Padawan."

The younger woman tremblingly obeyed, sinking down on the ship's bunk opposite her mentor, hands clasped between her knees as though to still their urge to claw and shred at the wicked irony of fate. "I won't betray him like this."

The Tholothian Jedi master's generous lips pressed together in disapproval, though her gaze conveyed a degree of empathy. "Listen to me, Siri. He has betrayed himself by committing such an abomination; what I ask of you is not betrayal but loyalty. If you desire his good, then you will cooperate."

Her apprentice dropped her fiery gaze, lower lip caught between her teeth.

Adi pressed on, grasping Siri's knees in her slender, elegant hands. "Padawan. True compassion demands that you do what is _**best **_for his true self. If he has fallen to the Dark, then he is already destroyed, or nearly so. Loyalty demands that you avenge that death, or hold out hope of redemption to whatever remains of his true spirit. You would be less than an enemy were you to do _nothing."_

Siri turned her face away. "I will not believe that he has Turned. I _know_ him- it's impossible."

The older woman sighed, a double vise settling about her own heart; with one tragic demise would come another. Despite her best counsel, years of effort, Siri's fatal attachment had not yet been uprooted. Who could say to what extremity of despair this mission might drive her? "Do not be so sure of what is impossible," she advised her protégé. "The Force exceeds our comprehension, both Light and Dark."

Siri thrust one hand into her tunic and withdrew a small polished stone. Her fingers caressed its veined surface, following the subtle threading of crimson amid jet black, then closed over it protectively. "I intended no such arrogant claim, Master," she said at last. "I only meant that I know _him."_

"Then you will accept what burden such knowledge lays upon you?"

"The burden of abusing his trust?"

Adi's brows arched upward. "_Think,_ my siri-pasa, before you speak. If you cannot persuade him to surrender willingly, what do you suppose the alternative to be? Master Moll and I will not hesitate to do what we must."

Siri's face contorted in pain. "You 'll kill him," she whispered. "Master, no, he's – you could be –" She clamped down upon rising fear, expelling it by sheer force of will to some far margin of awareness. "No," she repeated, hand closing round the river stone in passionate denial.

"Look at me," Adi commanded. "This is your duty, Padawan."

A moment's hesitation, in which Siri's spirit blazed into a resolute furnace, a young star expending itself without reserve. "I'll find him. I promised as much already. But if… if he is to die, then my heart will die with him."

It was a fiercely sworn oath, a young woman's pledge of undying… devotion. Adi released a pitying sigh. "Then, my dear, you will live without it. For sometimes this what our path demands."

She delivered the words without regret, for they were utter truth, and her student ready to face their hard reality. But nor did she refuse the demands of compassion when Siri threw herself upon her knees and wept bitterly, head cradled between Adi's hands, the Force a paltry balm to her aching spirit.

"I am sorry, young one. We come to serve."


	6. Chapter 6

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Melida-Daan's sky assumed a dusky violet blush at sunrise and sunset, a trick of descending light and – a faint snippet of information gleaned from some long-ago academic endeavor – often a sign of deteriorating ozone and ionospheric gases, most commonly the effect of sustained volcanic or heavy industrial emissions. Clouds hung diaphanous among the coy spangling of evening stars. There was a taste of blood, too, the bitter tang of iron in strange contrast to the ethereal pallor of the late-day clouds, the purpling hush of the skies.

Obi-Wan frowned over that, and then turned his head to one side, making the heavenly dome whirl away into the periphery, its former place now occupied by a rocky scree and a rough, uneven slope beyond, rising up in jagged crenellations of eroded stone, a quite nasty place for someone to take a fall. A lightsaber hilt lay a short distance away, carelessly dropped by its irresponsible possessor.

_That weapon is your life. And I see you've done about as well with it._

He uncurled the fingers of one hand and brought the weapon rolling, skittering in to his grip, the Force present but only truculently cooperative, a felix barely deigning to recognize his company. The taste of blood was sticky at the back of his throat; running his tongue over his teeth, he discovered to his dismay that a molar had been significantly loosened, a swelling bruise spreading over the jawbone below.

Also, his shirtfront was soaked in a fresh layer of ooze, the wound upon his chest reopened and weeping a milky pink moisture again, the scarline throbbing.

"Well, that's nice," he groused, finding his center of gravity and pushing up. He had no memory of how he came to be here – or for that matter, where he was. Common sense dictated that he must not be far from the Republic ship he had earlier discovered – surely he could not have wandered _too_ far in the throes of delirium?

Could he have?

But how long had he been out this time? Hours and hours, the darkening sky proclaimed. He drew in a deep breath, releasing aches and stiffness into the Force, gazing up at the forbidding slope above him. He would have to climb it, retrace his steps, attempt to navigate his way back to the courier or the hacked starfighter. Exertion might clear his head – at the moment he could think of little else but to be thankful he had not broken anything.

_Broken bones are the least of your worries, I would say._

"Funny that you should mention it," he grumbled, ironically.

His ubiquitous mirror-self snorted. _It's also funny that you've been out here all this time, but Master Moll hasn't found you. Unless he did but left you for dead._

"Don't be morbid."

_He wouldn't be the first Jedi master to leave you for dead, or close enough to it. It's become quite a habit recently._

Really. He clambered upward, awkwardly, scrabbling for handholds, wedging his boot toes in clefts and cracks. "Yes, well, I can think of at least one other whom I would prefer leave me be."

But the obnoxious barve did not take the hint- or more likely, purposefully ignored it. _Leaving you alone seems like a Very Bad Idea… look at the kind of atrocities you commit when you're solitary. How many Fallen have you obliterated? Do you suppose slaying undead beings is against the Code, properly speaking…. Or is it just propaedeutic to Darker things?_

He attained the crest and squinted across the ragged landscape. Tumbled rock formations, dips and valleys, canyons and mounds. He spotted the capitol city's hazy outline on a far horizon and guessed at the relative location of his ship. "Blast it." What in the blazes had compelled him to hike so _very_ far? With a sigh, he started the grueling trudge back along his presumptive route, thirsty and tired and utterly confounded.

Night came on, the moons rose, the air gradually took on a derisive chill.

Perhaps Moll had already gone to the capitol, in search of him…. but no. That did not stand to reason. His starfighter stood within sight of the Sentinel's own ship. Why hadn't he come?

_Maybe he was just making a recon run. Observing you. For all you know, they've been sending ships and people to watch you for months. The Shadows keep surveillance on fallen Jedi – you know that. They did the same to Xanatos. Why not you? What if Moll saw you in the midst of a fit, and realized how sick and Dark you are, and left to report to Dooku and the Council?_

It was a terrifying thought, one that nearly brought him to his knees.

No," he told the Other. How he wished his bedeviling companion had a corporeal form, so that he might push the vexatious wretch off the nearest cliff – but that inspired another and yet more terrifying thought: he _was_ the body of this inward monster, the servant of his own secret and diabolic impulses, a puppet animated by the Dark Side as though by some wicked invasive power…

That genuinely brought him to his knees. He retched violently for several minutes, and then wiped his mouth with the back of one grimy sleeve. The Dathomiri potion… the green mist… Sifo-Dyas' assurance that _death_ was a comparatively happy fate from which he would be debarred… the armies of the Fallen, their obscene rebirthing…

He was undead, too. In the only way that mattered. A Jedi possessed by shadow, dominated and ruled by the principalities of Darkness, was worse than dead. He was _consumed,_ eaten alive by sempiternal hatred, incarcerated in a fathomless hell of his own making.

_You have your sabers,_ the voice reminded him, grimly.

But that would be surrender. And surrender was something he did _not_ do. "Suicide is not the Jedi way." He stood up, then, and banished the ingratiating counselor's whispered seductions to a far corner of his mind, and kept walking.

* * *

When he reached the plateau where both ships were docked, he wished he had not.

"No," he choked, sliding and scrambling down the last incline.

_Force, no! No, no nonono…_

His boots thundered across the hard-packed rock and skidded to a halt beside the body.

No. NO.

"Master Moll." But there was no controverting the evidence of sight, nor the rank sweat of Darkness lingering in the cold air. The very stones about him echoed with a malicious pleasure in the act. _Korah._

Yarriss Moll's head lay a full meter form his body. _Matah. Yoodah. _ The killing blow – and so many needless, defacing strikes laid into the torso – a cauterized line of burnt flesh. A light-saber wound. _Rah-ta-mah._

There was no blood, but the Force was stained a lurid crimson, red and black glyphs twisting through it, the tortured signature of pure unsullied hate.

The dust about the corpse was stirred up, patterned with boot-prints, scored here and there with gashes – down-strokes of a 'saber. The Iktotchi's weapon was nowhere to be seen. This fact seemed significant, somehow, but his blank and unbelieving mind could not piece together a coherent explanation.

He realized he was hyperventilating when spots began to swim before his vision.

Think, Kenobi, think, think. No – don't. Don't think. Just act. Do something.

Contact the Council. Something. He stumbled up the ship's ramp, into the cramped bridge - but the console and communications equipment had been thrashed, a plasma blade drawn casually through every instrument panel, buried in the main processor for good measure. The murderer had been thorough, and calculating. This vessel would not fly again without repairs impossible to complete on this forsaken world.

Dazed, he returned to the body. The Fallen seldom wandered this high into the wilderness outside the city, but they did occasionally get lost among the lonely hills. And they _must not_ find Yarriss Moll's mortal remains, add blasphemous insult to the injury of his demise.

He quested far in search of kindling; little grew here at the arid mountains' feet, and he needed a great deal of fuel. By the time the pyre was piled high and the body laid out – in the best state he could manage, hands folded atop the breast, the horned head placed reverently upon the mangled neck, dawn was breaking.

He lit the tinder with his 'saber, and waited until the first dark smoke crawled heavenward. "Forgive me," he begged whatever luminous part of the Sentinel now dwelt within the Force itself.

Certain that his presence would dishonor the noble Iktotchi's last memorial, the symbolic liberation of luminous spirit from gross matter, he withdrew, climbed back into the starfighter's cockpit and lifted the decrepit ship over the rise, around the twisting column of smoke, and back toward the capitol and the Young, no thought but that of _escape_ in his mind, no image but that of the stark and grisly testament of evil he had left behind.

* * *

Mace found his old friend cloistered in the confining austerity of the lower south wing residential hall. These tiny, windowless cells had been relegated to the role of seldom-employed guest-housing after a more modern renovation had added more spacious quarters to the upper concourses. These remote rooms were most often used now as private retreats for meditation, though clearly Qui-Gon had opted rather to bury himself here, in the depths of the Temple's foundation – nearer to its historical roots – than to audaciously request the better accommodations usually provided resident members of the Order.

The carefully crafted humility of that choice did not escape Mace's notice.

"Mace." The tall man opened his eyes, registering a surpise that might have been insulting under other circumstances.

The Korun crossed the threshold and helped himself to a seat upon the floor. The room was outfitted with a single inset bunk, and a single meditation cushion, presently occupied. He folded his legs beneath himself, hand sresting upon his knees.

Release of breath, release of duty's mantle. "I _am_ glad to see you again, Qui-Gon," he confided, man to man. They had grown up together. They had called the other _friend_ before the inconvenience of disparate conviction had come between them.

The tall man regarded him warily.

"In fact," Mace continued, with characteristic bluntness, "You've made me a very happy man, you old renegade bastard."

"We come to serve."

A dry chuckle, one echoed in Qui-Gon's limpid eyes. "I used to fantasize about placing you on probation, you know," the Councilor reminisced. "You've earned this a hundred times over."

A shrug, and a tilt of the chin suggesting that the subject of this accusation simultaneously pled guilty to the charge and denied any relevance to the juridical principles upon which it stood.

"And Qui-Gon…. I _am _sorry about Obi-Wan." Mace reached across the space between them, brushed dark fingers against his companion's knee. "If I could change the course of destiny … "

The Force shimmered with distress. "Mace. I've been trying to reach him – for hours."

The Korun's brows rose. "At such a distance? After so long, do you really suppose-'

"I can feel him," Qui-Gon asserted, laying low the objections of logic and precedent. "He's suffering. Something's very wrong, I should have been sent out there!"

The usual obstructions settled comfortably between them again – but with a sort of glad resumption of cosmic order, duelers taking up choreographed positions, joyful in their ordained conflict. "This is a matter of discipline," Mace countered.

"Of course the Council prioritizes discipline over compassion," Qui-Gon snorted. "You've created a doomsday ultimatum. That's the worst possible tactic for dealing with Obi-Wan. I should know."

Mace glowered. "Grace me with your wisdom."

"If he can't negotiate his way out, or outwit the aggressor, then he'll fight."

"He's outnumbered and cornered... His only options are to surrender or be destroyed."

Qui-Gon exhaled slowly. "You don;t understand… _surrender_ is the one thing he will never, never choose. He's … constitutionally incapable. It's carried him through so many ordeals, to so many triumphs… but this time, it may well nigh be his downfall."

But they were Jedi, and had not the luxury of refuge from harsh truth.

"I'm truly sorry," Mace repeated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"That was too easy," Adi Gallia remarked, guiding the Republic vessel down through Melida-Daan's upper atmosphere. "Remind me to thank whomever it was that blasted every last orbital sentry into smithereens."

Her padawan stirred uneasily in the co-pilot's seat. "But… if the sentries were knocked out, then how was the Service Corps ship grounded?" she mused.

The Tholothian Jedi glanced sideways. "Perhaps further investigation will answer that … we don't know what technology or spacecraft the killer may have in his possession."

"The killer," Siri repeated, flatly.

"We are dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, padawan. Do not let sentiment mislead you. The more pressing question in my mind is why Master Moll has maintained comm silence so long."

"Transmission jammer?" the younger woman suggested. "But then how did his first messages reach Coruscant… it doesn't make sense, Master."

"None of this does," her mentor sighed. "We're flying in blind, so far as I'm concerned."

Siri Tachi shoved her dangling braid behind one ear and stared out the viewport at the parting clouds. "We're flying into _trouble,"_ she muttered.

Adi's full lips curved into a bitter smile. "I think we knew that already."

* * *

Obi-Wan steered the rattling fighter into the overgrown sewage outlet beneath the city's southern walls, cursing an eloquent blue streak – in Twi'Lek – when the already anemic repulsor-system chose this moment to expire, stranding him halfway along the dank tunnel.

He sprinted the remainder of the distance, and pounded insistently on the vast floodgates barricading its far end. When no answering challenge was issued by the sentries posted inside, he collected his scattered wits sufficiently to calm his racing pulse and reach into the Force –

-only to be assaulted by a wave of death, a churning sea of violence contained behind the massive panels.

_Oh no._

Hands outstretched, he harnessed the invisible power and wrenched the creaking slabs apart, dust and mold cascading from their exposed interlocking teeth in a filthy avalanche. Another wave of death washed over him, barely making an impression – for was he not steeped in it already, dyed and stained to his bones?- and a grim scene from some war-documentary holo lay before him as though arranged upon a stage.

Men sprawled helter-skelter, blaster burns and score marks along walls and floor, the stink of grenades and overheated weapons, the tang of fear and anger and pain swirling nauseatingly in the Force. He stepped over the jutting door's edge, reeling.

_No._

He did not need to be told what had precipitated the outbreak of hostility, nor whom was responsible. Resentment had been festering here beneath the surface for months, Melida and Daan partisans indulging in bitter altercations inside the tunnels, threatening to mutiny against the Young's imposition of rule. He broke into a run, crossing the body-strewn hangar bay and dashing up the nearest corridor, into the dining hall, the storage closets, the pipe network that functioned as sleeping quarters…

Death, death, death. Bodies lay crumpled where they had fallen, the scorched black detritus of blaster fire riddling the curved duracrete of the subterranean chambers and halls , the lingering miasma of desperate strife rasping along the back of his throat with every panting breath. He passed in a horrified trance through every passage and room, the casualty count mounting to obscene proportions, Melida and Daan and idealistic Young scattered like autumnal leaves: stripped from their branches by the fleet wind of hatred and crushed to a uniform dust underfoot.

He reached the end of his nightmarish peregrination, having discovered not one survivor.

Think, think. He pressed his forehead against a wall, against welcome coolness. His rational mind was screaming something at him, if only he could hear it over the panicked roar of denial in his ears.

He had failed, failed all these people, abandoned them to the inevitable fallout of their tensions, when he should have been here to play peacekeeper, to defuse the silently ticking bomb, to blunt the edges of their anger. He had neglected duty – the only duty left to him, the one he had _chosen, _ in preference to his birthright, for the sake of compassion. The failure threatened to crush him, slammed into his core like a fist, bringing his headlong flight from Moll's murder to a crashing halt against an unyielding wall of fact.

He was a killer, and a failure. There was _nothing_ left on this Force-forsaken world for which to live, no reason why he should drag out his existence any further, burrow himself any deeper into the bosom of Darkness.

When he slammed his hand against the cold stone hard enough to split the knuckles, reason used the ensuing moment of painful clarity to raise a good point. _Well, that was intelligent. Cripple your sword-hand now that it's too late._

"Shut up," he snarled. He didn't need his own irony. He rubbed at the broken skin, grimaced.

_Brave Jedi warrior,_ the inner voice taunted him. _Why were you running home? To cry on mummy's shoulder? Were you hoping Cerasi would kiss it and make it better?"_

"For Force's sake -!" But… a gleam of rationality broke through obscuring fog. ...He had not found Cerasi among the carnage. Nor Nield. Nor any children.

There _had_ been survivors. They had fled.

This single glimmer of hope was enough; it sparked that undying ember that still struggled to burn in his most inward heart, blew a faltering breath of renewed vibrancy into his limbs. The last remnant of the Young must be sheltered somewhere in the city above. He wracked his brains for some clue, some shred of memory that might help him locate his friends… and then thought better of it.

They were better off without him.

He pushed onward, up through a dismal grating near the courtyard of memorial, the now derelict square where first-day services had been held for generations. The braziers had been toppled, ashes scattered, soggy and misshapen candle stumps melting where they stood, crumbling scraps of cloth and wood piled in the corners.

And somewhere near, the shuffling of undead feet, the pervasive stench of rotting flesh. The Fallen were at loose in this sector. He exhaled, thrusting fingers through his grimy hair, raking them over his scalp. Now what?

Now what?

* * *

Yarriss Moll's ship was not difficult to locate; furthermore, a dwindling pillar of greasy smoke seemed to mark the coordinates like a sinuous black pennant, a foreboding beacon-signal.

They stood in grave silence by the smoldering pyre. It had been built in haste, from native bracken and scrub bush, and the fire had not peaked sufficiently to truly complete the job. The Sentinel's scorched but unconsumed remains still lay atop the blackened heap, arranged respectfully according to traditional Jedi funerary rite.

Adi stood aghast , the horror of Moll's unexpected and clearly violent death still sitting uneasily in her belly.

"What kind of murderer gives his victim a proper memorial afterward?" Siri asked, helplessly.

The Tholothian master shook her head, the soft pendant tails of her headdress quivering with her own misgivings. ""I do not know, Padawan… this is exceedingly strange."

The younger woman fiercely dashed a forearm across her face. "I can… I can feel his signature. He was here," she whispered.

"Yes." And there was a rank stench in the Force too, evil clotting in the space between breaths, in the interstices of being, as though a thing wholly vile and unnatural had carved a gaping wound through the plenum, laughing as it went. If Siri felt something more … salutary, something born of Light, then she was indeed specially attuned to the one she sought. But there could be no denying the presence of undiluted evil here, and recently. "Stay here; I'll check the ship."

When she returned a few minutes later bearing the destroyed processor core from Moll's courier vessel, Siri looked up at her with glazed eyes. "Now what…?"

The Jedi master fixed her student with a grimly sympathetic gaze. "We contact Coruscant. Yarriss Moll was a master swordsman; only a _terror_ from the nine hells could have slain him like this. We're calling for back up."

Siri trotted behind her as they ascended their own ship's ramp. "You've decided to kill him!"

Adi sank into pilot's chair and activated the comm-satt station. "I am not playing this game at such odds," she replied. "I'm calling in a favor."

* * *

Dooku bristled, ramrod straight in his chair.

"Impossible."

"There is no question of possibility," Mace Windu rumbled. "It is an established fact." His face was deeply cast in shadow, the chamber emptied of all but the three of them, Coruscant's night traffic flitting indifferently by outside the panoramic windows, gaily painted festival lights strung on invisible wires.

"Terrible power do the servants of Darkness wield; strong in the Force, your padawan was already," Yoda grunted, mournfully. He shook his head, setting his wisping hair to waving in the dim illumination. "Dangerous, is the corruption of great potential."

"And you took pains to make him a formidable swordsman," Mace reminded the senior Sentinel. "In a combat form _specifically designed_ for 'saber to 'saber dueling."

Dooku cocked a brow at the undertone of disapproval in his Korun colleague's voice. "Makashi is a discipline that hones speed and finesse, and refines the mind. Forgive me if I suggest that traditional forms are preferable to untried innovations… particularly those that teach _flirtation_ with darkness."

And now two of the three Jedi in the room bristled with resentment.

"Enough," the ancient master snapped. "Bicker like children you do. Teach _Vapaad _to the inexperienced, Master Windu does not. Blame for Molls' death: upon Master Dooku fall it does not. Your dispute you will surrender to the Force."

Both chastised Councilors dipped their heads.

"Spare you we cannot," Yoda continued, heavily, gimlet eyes resting upon the man to his right. "But go you must. Help Master Gallia and do what must be done. A match for _you,_ at least, he is not yet."

All three stood.

Mace bowed low. "I take no joy in this," he addressed Dooku.

"May the Force be with you," the Sentinel responded, tightly.

Outside, the careless light streamed, ribbons of fluid color bedecking a grief-stricken sky.

* * *

"According to Master Dooku, that splinter group called the Young was dwelling beneath the capitol at the time of his departure," Adi said, setting the Republic ship down beneath a blasted-out factory roof in the city's center. "If we can make contact with these people, they may be able to help us locate Kenobi."

Siri had lapsed into a aching silence ever since they had left the grisly pyre. She bowed her assent.

Their vantage point afforded them a panoptic view of the ruined metropolis. Stale hatred had settled like dust upon the entire bleak expanse, a vendetta desiccated into meaningless despair, the hollow tracery of fossilized passion. The Force barely rippled, running sluggishly along invisible banks, silt-laden and opaque.

The padawan gasped. "Everyone here is dead…. I don't feel _anything."_

Adi pointed out a scavenging party bumbling in an alley below. "Look," she hissed. "Those are the Fallen… I hardly dared to believe the report."

They dropped to their bellies and peered over a masonry ledge. The zombies milled about aimlessly, their half-decayed corspses sending up a putrid stink.

Siri covered her mouth with one broad sleeve. "Stars' end! Master… why would anyone stay here?" She coughed violently, gagging on the foul incense.

"Can you sense him here anywhere?" Adi asked, in a similarly hushed tone. "I think we should avoid contact until Master Windu arrives."

But Siri shook her head. "If he's here, he's shielded like a Nemoidian bank vault."

The older woman nodded gravely. "It's just as well. Stand sentry here; I will see if I can find any refugees." She gracefully folded herself into meditation posture, closing her eyes and sinking into an open trance, questing through the vast currents of strife and decay in search of life's faint, hopeful luminance.

And Siri remained as lookout, one hand curled about her 'saber's hilt, a cold breeze playing with the loose wisps of gold at her nape and ears, a sinking weight of ice crystallizing in her heart.

"Obi you stupid gundark," she gritted out, vehemence closing her throat with unshed tears.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Sometimes the Other was a voice murmuring in his ear, as intimate as his own brooding thought; at other times it seemed to walk abroad, a shadow of a shadow, as divorced and alien from him as the decrepit animated corpses that wandered the city's skeletal ruins.

And sometimes it was both at once, inward and outward, self and enemy, torment and tormentor.

_You should sleep. This is psychosis fueled by sustained derivation. We learned about that in class, remember? You can't drive your body like this, even with the Force. The backlash is incredible._

"I'm not sleeping." Hells, no. Not when a menace stalked the streets, not when relaxing his vigilant state meant unleashing a horrific monster. And who was to say when darkness would again descend to claim him? At least awake he was ready, prepared to make another doomed defensive stand.

_Well, you're not very good company. I've had more stimulating discussions with a droid._

"And I've enjoyed better company in a Hutt pleasure palace."

_That's subject to misinterpretation…and besides, you've never been such a place!_

He cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps I went without _you._ Hence the term 'pleasure.'"

Something oily - dangerous - slid over the surface of his awareness, passing so close to his psyche that he shuddered. He was shielded with every well-practiced technique Dooku had taught him, barricaded in the fastness of his own mind, impenetrably veiled . An antediluvian, deep-buried instinct bade him _hide,_ and he did, a youngling participating in a safety drill, crouched behind furniture in the Temple as he waited, giggling with his peers, for the all-clear signal.

But this was no drill, no charade founded on some unimaginable future contingency.

_Do you really think it's possible to shield from yourself?_

"Well, if you think of a way, let me know," he drawled, ironically.

That fell presence drifted nearer again, hungry. Hunting. Ravenous for blood. He cringed, drawing his defenses tighter, breath ratcheting into a tight rhythm. Power. Revenge Murder. His temples throbbed to the compelling beat of the seeker's desire, his protection trembling beneath the siege.

And then it passed onward, still prowling greedily for victims.

_Cerasi and Nield, the children. They're next. Moll is already dead – nothing can stop him. Nothing._

But that wasn't true. He gripped both 'sabers in sweat-slicked hands. There was one who could stop the madness. And sometimes the only recourse was to stand up to a threat. A Jedi did not kill, except in defense of the innocent.

He rose from his place of concealment, a Shadow in pursuit of his prey, the hunted turned upon the hunter. He would end this on his own terms, battling the Dark face to face as a Jedi. And when he fell, he would take the monster with him, save the Young, fulfill his oath and promise.

_You're completely insane,,_ his inner voice scoffed. _You can't fight yourself._

But he could. That was the ultimate contest, the pinnacle of a Jedi's achievement. He would find himself, lose himself, conquer the darkness within, triumph through defeat, immolate himself upon Light's altar and be consumed. There was no other way.

He knew it was the extremity of madness, but it was right. Laughing fiercely, he set out in search of himself, in search of death.

* * *

Adi led the way, Siri pressed close beside her.

Three zombie patrols, seventeen dismembered corpses left in their wake. They had stopped to wash their hands, and to vomit – efficiently, unemotionally, as befitted Jedi warriors – in a crumbling gutter. They had followed the trail of tenacious life, the gentle ripple in the Force, like the barest trail of disturbed sand behind a desert serpent.

And they found a sunken doorway, heavily protected by blast paneling, beneath the gutted carcass of some noble edifice, the shattered permagalss of its windows laying in artistic array about its feet.

The Tholothina pounded upon the door, to no avail.

"Cover me," she ordered. Siri's blade leapt from its hilt, humming a low note of warning as the older woman raised her hands and summoned the Force, wrenching the ponderous slab of metal open. It creaked in protest before yielding to the invisible pressure.

A blaster bolt shot from the aperture, defleacted harmlessly from Siri's blade.

"Stop! We are friends!" Adi hollered, her voice echoing in the gloom beyond. "Jedi!"

A lengthy pause, the rustle of a murmured argument beyond, and then a thin, dark haired man appeared in the doorframe, peering at them with deep-set golden eyes, his stooped posture and care-lined face bespeaking great burdens. "Gods," he muttered. "… come in, we need to seal the door. And put that farking thing away," he snapped at Siri. "That's the last thing we need."

The two Jedi slipped beneath t he sagging lintel into a stuffy enclave lit by a single glowlamp. A half dozen adults, and a double handful of children, crouched and cowered along the room's perimeter. There were no furnishings, no comfort of heat generator or blanket. The refugees clung to one another in abject misery.

Siri gaped, looking in pity upon the last of Melida-Daan's inhabitants, the crushed pulp of a civilization long ago doomed to extinction by its own hand.

The tall man who had greeted them was joined by a red-haired woman, one whose suspicious eyes traveled over Adi and then Siri with a slow-dawning light of recognition. "Jedi," she repeated. "From the Republic."

"Yes," Adi replied, warily.

"Kriff the Republic!" the man exploded, gesturing to his comrades. "This is your Republic's fault… your farking Jedi Order's fault! The Fallen… everything that has happened…. All your fault!"

Adi raised both hands pacifically. "We recognize your plight-"

"No!" the impassioned man bawled. "No, you don't! Your … your sacred, Jedi war.. that's what caused this! We had our own war, and you people had to double, triple the stakes, didn't you? And this is the result! I wish we had never seen any of you!"

The woman gripped the man's arm. "Nield, please. Please. They might be able to help.."

"Help!" he spat. "Help like your precious friend helped us? He swore to stay and help, but what have we done but die since then? And he came looking to kill one of their own! He was an assassin, Cerasi, part of their war, not ours, and he dragged us into it with him. And now we're all that's left. And you!" He turned upon the Jedi, fury in his gaze. "You've come looking for him, haven't you? You've probably come to kill him… that's all it ever comes to, this damned right and wrong of yours, holier-than-thou kriffing jihadists, killing each other, fighting and murdering and killing! Light, Dark, farking whatever! I told you, Cerasi, I've always said it. What are the four roots of war?"

Since the red haired woman did not answer, Adi provided the response. "Injustice, greed, pride, and the will to domination. These are universal causes of strife and suffering."

"No!" Nield ranted. "War is caused by family, by property, by government - like your kriffing Republic - and above all by kriffing religion! Kriff your Light and Dark and their eternal struggle to extinguish one another, your righteous killings, your worship of principles over life! Get out! We don't want you here!"

The children were by this time whining and weeping in terror, adult passion thundering elemental about them.

"Stop!" Siri begged. "We don't come to fight or kill! We're looking for someone. You know him. He tried to help you. We need to find Obi-Wan."

The name worked a transformation. The man called Nield choked on his next words, subsiding into inarticulate rage, while the red-haired woman stepped forward, searching the younger Jedi's face intently, drinking her in as though they had met in a former life, as though this were some fated reunion of long-lost friends.

"Gods," she whispered at last. "..You must be Siri."

* * *

He followed himself through the graveyard of the capitol, tracking the sulphur stench of his own passing, the scent trail of oozing Dark.

Alley to alley, blasted courtyard to ruined portico, up and down the streets. The Fallen lay heaped in the avenues, sprawled bloodlessly upon stairwells, their carcasses blocking the roads, heads and arms and limbs scattered willy nilly, blackened slashes carved into the skulls, across the limp torsos, a burning calligraphy scrawled across the army of the undead, a fluid narrative scribed in dead flesh.

The carnage ended outside the walls of Sifo-Dyas' former stronghold, in an ecstasy of destruction. Here the severed limbs and leering heads were scattered like petals over a bridal chamber, the gates slashed open, reduced to molten slag at the edges.

Obi-Wan ran a hand over the barely cooling metal, the signature mark of a 'saber blade.

How he had longed to wreak similar justice upon his enemy, to succumb to the lure of vengeance. Here, there, all about : a wrathful pleasure he had never allowed himself to taste, an orgy of malice. He stepped over the threshold, feeling the Other's ephemeral trace in the plenum, the cold chill that seized his spine, so close to pleasure, yet closer still to pain.

He pressed on.

The factory floor was in ruins, the equipment shattered, appointments overturned, droids and computer banks fried and cut to pieces. He stood and breathed it in, the consummation of every futile raging temptation he had ever felt, unleashed in a single paroxysm, a liberating supernova of hate.

The Dark chorused here, too, drunk on its own splendor.

_Korah, mata, yoodah, korah._

He was lost, far far gone, so deep in the hells' bowels that he was beyond all redemption, a thing animated by fire, possessed by consuming nothingness. It was… a thing of awe. Dizzying.

He crumpled to the hard, burn-scored deck, overthrown by the black majesty of it. How? How, how, how, had it come to this? He clutched at his chest, where the oozing scar left by the fallen Sentinel still burned, still refused to be healed. Dathomiri mist clawed across his vision, seductive, inviting. He had fought, and fought, and fought, until he had passed beyond mere weariness into a state of nightmarish clarity, his vital flame burning itself out, valiantly refusing to be quelled. And yet…

Could one Fall against one's own will? Was that possible?

Or did he need to ask?

* * *

They had brought standard field equipment, including ration pellets; these, by unspoken concensus, went to the famished children, whose need was acute enough to forestall the common, deserved complaint about taste and texture. Cramped bellies full even after such a paltry – if nutritionally dense- meal, the younglings slumped into a miserable slumber, huddled against the few adult members of the Young who had survied the cataclysmic purge.

"What happened?" Adi inquired.

Nield had withdrawn to a lonely corner, hunched in on himself. Cerasi glanced at him, sighed. "We had adopted refugees form both camps… when the Fallen came. In the end, they could not set aside their anger, their grudge. The fighting broke out suddenly, but we had seen it coming for months."

"Are there other cells of your organization?"

Cerasi shook her head. "We've lost contact over time… Obi-Wan – he said that they had perished. He could feel it. He has.. visions, or something." She hesitated. "Maybe you all do?"

"Our gifts are diverse, but such talent is not uncommon."

"Then we are the last ones… of all?"

Fourteen survivors, from an entire planet. The Tholothian woman bowed her head, in grief for what the Dark had wrought here. "I am sorry. My padawan and I have a ship, and another of our Order is on his way. We will transport you to the Core. The Republic will –"

"Damn the vile, hypocritical Republic!" Nield bitterly interjected, from his place of self-imposed exile. "We don't want your charity! We want our dreams!"

Adi lowered her voice, addressing Cerasi alone. "There is no hope to be found here any longer. You may have to accept charity in order to have any chance of seeing those dreams come to fruition. And do not your younglings deserve life, even at the cost of leaving their native world?"

"We have no choice left… what must we do?"

Adi exchanged a silent glance with Siri, silently kneeling beside her. "Help us. We need to find Obi-Wan before it's too late."

Cerasi fixed the younger woman of the pair with a penetrating gaze. "And what will you do when you find him? Is he to be executed like the one he came seeking all those months ago? Has he ceased to be useful to your cause? Is he a hunted criminal now?" A desperate plea lay behind the words, a dreadful suspicion founded on inchoate glimpses of the truth.

Siri lifted her chin, ignoring Adi's restraining hand upon her knee. "No," she boldly promised. "I'm going to save him."

And in that wild hope, and the promise it implied, she and Cerasi were instantly united in purpose.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

No sooner had Mace set foot upon the cursed planet's surface, than the Dark hit him full in the face, a noxious blast from some impalpable smelting-furnace.

The Korun Jedi breathed in, welcoming the influx of hatred, taking it, shaping it, _taming_ it. The dark bucked and writhed, captive – and then stilled, subdued by a greater power. He exhaled, slowly. Malice dissolved into fawning sycophancy, the whispered flattery of liars and petty tyrants. He ignored this temptation too. The Dark rose up again, in siege against him, stronger now, embittered by his scorn, only to crash harmlessly upon his walls. Wounded, furious, it lashed at his feet, raged impotently at his heels as he strode away from his ship and toward the capitol, brow furrowed in concentration.

This world was _toxic._

And to think that Kenobi had been here… how long? Upward of nine standard months?

A Padawan should never have been _left_ in such a place at all, no matter how obstinate and determined… it bespoke a callous indifference to subjective suffering, a proud and overbearing authority, one that would not hesitate to impose a lesson through the medium of disdain and cruelty. He was going to have a _talk_ with Yan Dooku when he returned to Coruscant. A long talk.

In the senior level dojo.

On the other hand, he was a fair man. And he had to admit, the Council was not without blame. They had opted to _let the situation play itself out,_ chosen to _wait for Kenobi to come to his senses,_ decided to_ send reconnaissance units to check on the boy, _ voted for the cowardly action of sending _clandestine aid_ rather than hauling the wayward Padawan back to the Temple by the scruff of his stubborn neck. The Order, he reflected, had developed a lamentable habit of turning a blind eye to its own cast-offs and rejects.

Xanatos. Sifo-Dyas. The initiates sent to the Service Corps, even. How many of them had fallen to Darkness, for want of guidance? Attention was lavished upon the elite, upon those judged worthy by the lofty standards of Knighthood… but had they no compassion for the struggles of their lesser members? For those who strayed but were not lost? What other family, having learned that a child had run away – albeit voluntarily – consigned his memory to oblivion, made no effort to retrieve the prodigal?

There was a lesson there for all of them. He recalled that only old Yoda had grumblingly objected, allowing himself to be out-voted on the point again and again…

Perhaps he would have a to have a long talk with the ancient Master, too.

In the senior dojo.

Grimacing in anticipation of that humiliating encounter, he quickened his pace. Before all else, he must face the grim consequence of his own neglect. He could only pray for some miracle of the Force, some manifestation of mercy that might reverse the sentence hanging over the padawan's head, the judgment leveled against all of them for their arrogance, himself not least of all.

The city and its grim revelations welcomed him with generous arms, the rictus embrace of a cadaver. Scowling mightily, he passed between its gates like a pensive thunderhead.

* * *

They sought each other now, self and mirror, original and hideous distortion, chasing one another down the reflective halls of some ghoulish palace, dodging between the columns and pillars of awareness, now shielded, now revealed in fleeting glimpses, the hunt gradually transforming into a dance, a kata, a courting ritual.

Throughout the city, among the felled soldiers of the undead, among rubble and dust.

Between shadows, between shafts of failing light. Closer, closer, hunter and hunted, self and hellish un-self, Jedi and warped mockery of the same, spiraling ever closer to that center from which there was no return, ominous drums resounding in the plenum, heralding the final confrontation, the conjunction of life and death, compassion and purpose, obedience and rebellion.

_Korah. Matah. Yoodah. Korah._

Death drew nigh, and he rushed to meet it.

* * *

Master Gallia and her padawan met him in the wrecked central square, a place where ritual braziers had been crushed and toppled, the trappings of some abandoned ceremony scattered like ash.

"Mace."

"Master Windu."

He returned their bows, and raised brows at the slender woman who accompanied them, a harried native daughter of the planet clad in worn fatigues.

Adi introduced the stranger as Cerasi, leader of the disenfranchised Young, the reactionary pacifist group living beneath the world's strife torn surface. Grief hung about the woman in heavy drapes.

"She has agreed to help…. Kenobi has been sheltering with them for months, protecting them, mediating disputes among their members."

Mace nodded. Interesting. "Has he behaved unpredictably? In an erratic manner?"

The woman watched him warily, defensiveness in her posture. Siri Tachi stood at her elbow, offering mute encouragement. Interesting. Perhaps _informative._

"We have his best interest at heart," Mace assured the uneasy woman. It was true, from a certain point of view- one she was unlikely to share, but all the same.

Cerasi sucked in a deep breath. "He's ill. He has a wound that will not heal. It… torments him. He has episodes of…" she waved a hand, helplessly seeking words. "He disappears for hours, or days, and cannot remember where he has been or what he has done in the meantime. Once he killed two hundred of the Fallen without any awareness of doing so. He came home… filthy. Gory." Something of his inner disturbance must have registered on the Korun's face, for she hastily appended more detail. "He hates it – he's so exhausted afterward, and he… I've seen him weeping, when he thinks he's alone. He won't speak of it, but it's killing him." She threw her head back. "If you are truly friends of his, you'll help him. He's a good man. As good as… the best."

Mace released a slow breath. "He'll have to come with us if we are to help him."

Adi laid a hand on the red-haired woman's arm. "Gather your people. We'll depart as soon as we find him."

"And what if he won't come?" Cerasi demanded.

But the answer remained unspoken among them.

* * *

The vast cathedral halls of some ruined generator station were witness to their meeting.

Obi-Wan crouched among the rafters, delirious with fever, with Purpose, the Force thundering in his blood, his vision smearing into the absolute, into a bleeding nimbus of symbol and substance.

_Yoodah. Korah._

The Other emerged from a pit of shadow, leering, crowned in spiked agony, armed with crimson fire, mantled in night.

The Enemy. The killer. The Dark. The Other.

He dropped, like a thranctill plummeting from high heaven , and landed in a crouch before the face of absolute terror, the gruesome embodiment of his darkest self.

Four blades blazed in the gloom beneath the roof's crumbling firmament, crimson and sapphire tongues of flame; they fell upon one another with utter abandon, in an apocalyptic conflagration of sound and fire.

* * *

Mace tensed, body rigid beneath the dark sweep of his cloak. "Do you feel that?"

Beside him, Adi Gallia halted in her tracks, head coming round in alarm. "Yes."

A hurricane gale rose in the Force, a cacophonous disturbance, a storm's eye drawing light and dark inexorably into its spell.

Siri Tachi gasped. "Master!"

The Tholothian turned to her fellow master. "Can he _possibly_ be generating that?"

"I don't know." But there was only one choice laid before them. "Let's go."

They ran, 'sabers in hand, toward the nexus of the storm, toward the furious center of the invisible conflict , the raging heart of a battle within the universal Force itself, where Light clashed with Darkness, vying for dominance in a pitched duel of fates.

* * *

In the Force, in the grip of fathomless delirium, there were no walls, no roof nor sky; there was only darkness, a vast hurricane of power and fury engulfing him on all sides, the Dark roaring with a thousand voices: _Korah Mata Yoodah Korah_. At the center, embattled, outnumbered, lowly and beleaguered, his single shining spark, a star amid a galaxy of black holes.

The Other – the _thing, _ the hunter – was every childhood nightmare compacted into an unholy golem. Yellow eyes burned ember-like in shadowed sockets; the crown was no ornament but a grisly wreath of pain, spikes driven through the skull in a wide ring, thrusting obscenely form the cranium like angry talons; the face contorted into unrecognizable lines, burned alive, all black and red, charred and skinned, horrible horrible, jagged slashes of pain and deformity painted over spasming muscles, features twisted with fury. It wore shadow like a cloak, like a natural garment, the feathers of a bird, the fur of a beast, the scales of a fish. It flowed within shadow, spun and dove and turned with the hurricane's power, everywhere and nowhere, those crooked teeth gnashing at him as they clashed, 'sabers spitting wild burning droplets, screaming their defiance in deafening tones.

Their weapons spun and slashed, driving hard against one another, two on two, back-cut, parry, slash, lunge, flip, block feint parry strike, and strike, strike, and strike, attacks grazing centimeters shy of flesh, singeing fabric, burning hair, sending up a discordant shrieking as the plasma blades ground together.

_Submit!_ the monster commanded, _You are mine! Die!_

He caught a downward blow on both blades, flipped away from a second thrust aimed with savage strength at his belly. He turned, smashed a boot into his foe's face, ducked a decapitating strike, reversed and countered, his spark glowing within, stronger, surer, Light waxing bright in the midst of darkness. They clashed, parted, clashed again, teeth gritted, bodies trembling with effort. The Other's breath was rank, heavy with fermented hate. Obi-Wan choked, stumbled, took a harsh kick to the jaw, tumbled backward.

A killing strike thundered down upon him; he blocked it with his left-hand blade, his wrist protesting the abuse. He writhed, twisted, attacked on his right, parried, screamed as a boot connected with his ribs, rolled over to avoid impalement, brought his blades up in a desperate parry –

The monster loomed over him, panting, yellowing teeth bared in a feral grimace of pleasure. _Murder. Vengeance. Death. Korah. Mata. Yoodah._

He yelled, Light flooding higher. He would take it with him, extinguish it in one fell blow.

_Submit! You are mine!_

_Never! _He charged, defense forgotten, his focus blazing to intolerable radiance, consuming him. Strike, strike, reverse, evade, block, disengage, strike, double strike, again again again death roaring about them, Light and Dark sundering apart, withdrawing, his wound tearing open again, pain and bliss intermingled, wedded, Light triumphant in sacrifice, opening itself to destruction, to unity –

-fire ripped through his thigh –

-he screamed, struck a final blow, the _shoto_ blade passing through his opponent's shoulder, impaling him, destroying him…

They reeled apart, panting, crying out their mutual distress into the turgid plenum. And then, unheralded: others.

An angel wreathed in obliterating Light, darkness chained at its feet, a blade like violet starfire in one raised hand, a figure of majesty and terror, power and wrathful Light. Behind it, softer luminaries, white and beautiful, sweet bright holy-

The Other fled before the onslaught, its curse flailing against his ears: _Rah-tah-mah! Korah! It is begun. It is ended. We shall rise again._

The newcomers thundered forward, the Light in battle array, harbingers of justice, of doom. Obi-Wan clutched at his leg, at the liquid agony snaking through flesh and bone like a living thing, and rolled away into shadow.

Pain. Panic. He slipped beneath a fallen beam, fell heavily upon his back. Go, go, go. He was darkness, they were light, he was fallen, they just.

He crawled into a cleft of darkness amid the support struts, curled about his center, choked back his cries of distress. The burn upon his thigh drove molten spikes of pain through his nerves. His chest was bleeding, dripping sticky moisture. He was soaked in sweat, in the cold drenching of encroaching shock. The Force shook violently about him, mottled Light and Dark, a kaleidoscopic dispersal of power, the storm unfurling, shattering to a million stars, a giddy carillon spinning in his inner heaven.

He sobbed, and pressed hands into his wounds, and begged the Force for release, for an end to his agony, for nightmare's end. And waited for death to finally claim him, there in a lost corner of a lost world, defeated beyond any and all reckoning, avenging angels descending upon him in fury.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lineage X**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Light and the space between light, where void brimmed with invisible radiance, the surfeit of star-stuff unseen by the eye, and so erroneously named "dark." Planets, systems, clusters of stars, the slow-procession of a galaxy's arm, milky soft luminance and drifting nebulae…

…drifting atoms, drifting creatures in a primordial sea, drifting clouds scudding upon some world's virgin skies, drifting… thoughts… a thought, a particular thought, a mind , a spirit so sharp and bright and –

"Focus!" Master Yoda's gravelly injunction jerked him back to the present moment, like a clown in some comedic act, tripping hilariously upon some loose floorboard.

Qui-Gon Jinn hissed in a pained breath and rubbed at one temple, casting an accusatory glance at the ancient Jedi.

"Wandering, your attention is. Stay with me, you must. Begin the meditation again, we will." The diminutive green master closed his eyes once more, ears drooping languidly beside his wrinkled skull.

"No, Master. Wait. I thought – I felt – "

Yoda's eyes popped open as he emitted a vexed and grumbling sigh. "Yes?"

The tall man composed himself, smoothed his fingers out upon his knees, inhaled deeply. "I felt Obi-Wan."

He waited for rebuke, or for the abrupt rescinding of the old troll's tenuous favor, but none came. "Hhmmph," the old one replied. "Hmmmm."

"Please, Master. With your permission." His breath was all but bated, awaiting the answer to his unspoken entreaty. Yoda appeared rapt in his private thoughts, head tilted to one side, a single ear perked as though listening.

"Very well," he agreed, at last. "Help you I will." A blunt digit was thrust up at him, cautionary. "Once."

Qui-Gon bowed from the waist, where he sat, and then closed his own eyes, sinking back into the Force, coursing upon its waves in tandem with the Grand Master, two whaladons plunging deep beneath a measureless, boundless ocean.

And there- drifting, and then coalescing, bright and desperate, besieged, warped by pain and surrounding darkness: that same thought, that same spirit…

_Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Hear me._

* * *

He would have assumed himself to be going insane, had he not known for certain that he was already irremediably so.

Still, that voice was so welcome and impossible, the syllables of his own name like sweetest music when issued in that tone, from that long-dead oracle, that he responded anyway, clutching at the meager pittance of comfort they offered.

"Master?"

But the dead do not speak- and Qui-Gon Jinn was quite incontrovertibly dead. Obi-Wan had felt his extinction in the Force.

_And yet you feel me now._

"Master?… Master!"

And that was all, a miserly gift bestowed upon a starving pauper. But it was enough to precipitate thought, and that thought another, and another, an avalanche of clarity cascading down the slopes of his determination. Qui-Gon was dead. And he, Obi-Wan, had come here to die, to perish and so defeat the monster forever, protect all those whom it would in future slay, blot out its darkness from the universe forever - his last and consummating act, the only path of nobility or honor left to him.

He did not need to hide from the avengers; they wielded death, and death was his friend, his ally in this final battle.

Legs treacherously wobbling beneath him, the injured thigh refusing to bear weight, he clutched at a piece of scaffolding and hauled himself upright. Forward. Toward the arbiters of justice, toward the end. He grasped his 'sabers in shaking hands, stumbled a pace in the right direction, and came to a stunned halt, pain-shredded mind barely able to comprehend what he saw.

She ducked beneath a skewed slab of durasteel, her tunics glimmering pale in the gloom, her hair fretted with golden starlight, her eyes seeking his face.

"…Siri?"

He stumbled backward, coming up against the heavy support strut, withdrawing in horror. No, not Siri. Not her. Not now.

"Obi-Wan."

"…._Force,"_ he whimpered. Not Siri, not Siri, no no no. "Go away," he rasped. "Please. Go. Get away from me."

It was the wrong thing to say. Siri Tachi's delicate brows rose in challenge. "Who gave you the right to order me around, Kenobi?" A bold pace forward, closing the gap between them.

"No!" His voice broke. "Siri, _no!_ I'll hurt you, I'll kill you – please, _go! Go away! Leave now!" _he accented the desperate plea in the only manner he could. Both 'saber blades shot from their hilts, thrumming hot and menacing in the still air.

The woman was insufferably obstinate. "You _actually_ think you can take me, when you can barely even stand?" she scoffed, inching closer. "You really are an arrogant son of a vetch, aren't you?"

He grinned, shakily. Siri's image glossed liquid at the edges. _Oh, Siri._

"Go away," he growled, heart pounding. "I'll kill you. I'm a monster."

She stepped inside his guard, vulnerable, exposed. He could cut her down in a blink at this distance. "No argument there," she growled back. "But I know you won't kill me."

"Siri.." He squirmed backward now. He _had _to do this, there was no choice, no other option. "Let me go."

She watched him warily. "Adi and Master Windu are just outside. If you go out there sabers blazing, if you _attack them…" _Siri looked away, then fixed him again with a burning gaze. "They'll kill you."

He swept his weapons up, without warning, forcing her to leap backward in retreat. He gathered his flagging strength. "Out of my way. I'm finishing this." There was no time to explain to her, to tell her all the things, any of the things that remained half-expressed, unconsummated between them. There was no time for apology. He mutely begged her to see it, to forgive him.

"What?" She blocked his exit, her own 'saber snapping into life, a higher pitch joining the chorus of his own blades. "NO. Over my dead body. You're not going out there to commit suicide unless you _go through me."_

Of all the star forsaken absurdities! Why did she feel a need to make a heroic gesture at this moment? "Blast it, Siri!" he hollered. "Out of my way!"

"No."

He grabbed the strut for support, dropping his _shoto._ Damn in all to the… "Siri! Please!"

She raised her weapon. "You want to die, you have to take me with you."

He clung to the cold metal of the pillar, limbs trembling. "Siri, no."

"Then surrender. It's kill me or surrender." She stepped warily closer, and closer, until they stood a mere arm's width apart, 'sabers growling to either side,

"I'm Lost," he choked out, pleading for her to understand, to see it.

"That's why I came to find you. I promised." She came closer still, the unsullied white of her tunics brushing against the blood-stained mess of his, red grime speckling the pure linen, her free hand reaching, slowly, cautiously, to encircle his sword-arm's wrist. He started at the touch of her fingers.

"Drop it," she whispered. "_Ben'ke._ Please."

An eternal second's pause, in which destiny hung in the balance, teetering between hope and despair.

His 'saber hilt clattered to the floor, its sapphire flame expiring. Siri's blade likewise disappeared.

"Siri… "

But she smothered further protestation in melting warmth, fingers tangled fiercely in his long hair, a muffled sound of approval conveying her delight in the sturdy hand-hold provided thereby.

The howling shadows withdrew in respect, guttering Light blended with angel-fire, rekindled, hope blossoming amid a ravaged garden. He drank deeply of her wine, as though tasting the gift for the first time, reverently savoring its bouquet, its softness, its promise. They sank down together, until he was slumped against the strut, Siri pressed close against him, the agony erupting in his thigh and chest smearing into joy, into melting surrender.

"Siri," he gasped when she let him breathe.

She held his face in both hands. "_Ben'ke,_ sweet stupid gundark, you're so hurt… listen to me."

He was listening.

"I have to arrest you… we're taking you back to the Temple. I won't let them kill you."

He shook his head. So tired. "The Young… I promised…" he stuttered, hoarsely.

She stroked his cheek. "We found them. Cerasi and Nield and some children and a few others. All the survivors. We're evacuating them. You're done. It's finished."

He nodded. Gratitude and relief welled feebly within him, but he was too tired to wrap words about their mercuric inner forms. Siri's hands were fumbling with his. "What..?"

"Binders," she smirked, clipping the restraints fast in place. He could sense a thrill of amusement in her voice, but he was too tired to decipher its meaning. She drew closer again, breath cascading over his face. "Surrender?"

He leaned in, slowly. "Never." It took a long time to convey every subtle nuance of that word. Time spun out into intoxicating aeons, breathless minutes.

They parted again, but not far. Siri gently pushed damp hair off his forehead, smoothed it back, rubbed a thumb over the groove between his brows, as though attempting to eradicate the sharp furrow of pain carved there. "We're going home now."

Dread lanced through his belly and chest. The Temple, the Council….

"Shh, shh," Siri soothed. She fished something out of a belt pouch, fiddled with it, then pressed a soft patch of something against his neck, over the carotid artery. "I'm sorry… they insisted."

"What is that?" He couldn't muster the strength to raise his bound hands to investigate

Siri carded fingers through his hair. "I don't know… Ben To gave it to me… I think you're going to be out cold for a very long time."

He nodded. He _was_ dangerous. Very dangerous. A murderous servant of Darkness, in point of fact. But he was so tired, so _ludicrously _ worn out, that even this obscene fact was safely distanced to abstraction. "Oh," he replied, helplessly.

"Come here," Siri commanded.

He slumped into her arms, into sweet homecoming, into unconditional surrender, as the blunt hammer of whatever drug was in the med-patch descended upon his senses and thrust him hard over the edge, into a merciful oblivion.

* * *

It was a solemn procession that wended its way through the derelict city and out its unhinged gates toward the two Jedi ships just beyond. Adi Gallia and her padawan led the way, weapons drawn and ready, lest their egress be blocked by the last pitiable and decaying remnants of the Fallen. Behind them, carrying their own battered and exhausted children, trudged the Young – Cerasi and Nield and a handful of staunch friends, their ideals crushed into the bloody dust of their native planet, their dreams reduced to blackened seeds which must seek new soil or wither forever. Last in the slow convoy strode Mace Windu, dark face composed in stern lines, his tall figure simmering with banked power. He bore the limp and heavy burden of the Order's neglect in his arms: Obi-Wan, unconscious, badly injured, stained with Darkness, wrapped in the Korun's own thick cloak, a bitter prize of war carried back to the Temple to face judgment.

They divided their numbers into the two vessels in mournful silence, each grieving a separate loss or nursing a disparate fear, the younglings whimpering in anxiety as they boarded the unfamiliar starships, the Young casting final parting glances at their ruined homeworld, the Jedi steeling themselves for the trials yet to come.

Melida-Daan shrank to pallid insignificance beneath them as they rose, its scarred and war-pocked surface fading to a grim cautionary tale, a stark memorial to the Republic's folly and the madness of a fallen luminary, its last citizenry still wandering aimlessly among its blasted halls until time and decay at last claimed them too, and reduced all to uniform dust.

The stars circled in their paths, the galaxy spun its endless dance, and the two sojourning points of light disappeared into the limbo of hyperspace.

If a third ship followed swiftly after, en route to some distant rendezvous known only to the illuminati of some dark, forgotten sect, they remained none the wiser.

* * *

END PART I


	11. Chapter 11

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

The hatchway separating the claustrophobic aft passenger compartment from the equally tiny cargo hold hissed open, admitting Cerasi into the dim makeshift sick-bay.

"Oh," she muttered, hesitating in the door's frame. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

Siri Tachi turned to the older woman, blue eyes flicking up and down the visitor's figure, from worn combat boots and faded fatigues to the messy knot of silver-threaded auburn tied behind her head. She pushed her unbidden surge of territorial resentment away, releasing it into the Force. Hyperspace was a weird realm, a bubble floating suspended upon the universal currents – but far more salutary than the toxic miasma of Meldia-Daan. The bare neutrality was refreshing, by comparison. "You haven't."

There was nowhere to sit. Cerasi eyes the hard deck where her companion had evidently been kneeling the past hour, but decided against such imprudent abuse of her joints. She leaned against the bulkhead instead, eyes fixed upon the narrow bunk's current occupant. "Is he… will he be all right?"

Siri's grip tightened about the limp fingers threaded between her own. The brusque Jedi assurance, the glib reply offered automatically to any outsider, died upon her lips. She owed this woman honesty, somehow. Cerasi, she admitted to herself grimly, had a claim – a nine months' sliver of life, the solidarity of the trenches… and perhaps some nebulous _other_ piece of Obi-Wan – all her own. Jealousy was not the Jedi way. Attachment was forbidden. And all that mattered was the present moment, or its grim undetermined consequences.

"I don't know," she confessed, bowing her head. "He's so … well, I can barely feel him under the sedative, and even then, there's so much _wrong…"_

Cerasi folded her arms. "You're able to… tell? Just like that?"

So difficult to explain to one who had not the gift. "We're… well, he's a good friend. We have a connection."

"I know."

The textured implications of this statement brought Siri's head up again in alarm.

Cerasi nodded, tightly. "He mentioned you, once, by accident." She swallowed, then turned her face away, sighing. "I wondered who… what sort you would be. How old. How beautiful. A warrior or a poet or a sage, or … _what._" She gestured vaguely. "I don't know, what the girl from his real life would be like."

Siri frowned over this double revelation, of her own transparency and Cerasi's inner truth. Such things were not _spoken_ of – by Jedi, anyway – seldom by two women in _their _ situation – not that there _was_ a situation, of course – "You misunderstand," she protested.

But the Young's world-weary leader merely offered her a rueful smile.. "When you reach my age, you'll find certain things aren't nearly as embarrassing as you once thought . It's liberating, really."

Siri pushed her dangling learner's braid behind one ear. At eighteen, she was old enough to recognize wisdom even when it did not arrive clothed in Jedi garb. "Perhaps."

"Siri…. I may call you Siri?"

_Padawan Tachi_ would be the correct form of address… but it seemed irrelevant in light of their strange vicarious connection to one another.

"Thanks," Cerasi said, simply. "I'm glad you came, and I'm glad… I'm glad he has you. Truly."

The younger woman nodded, words sticking in her throat as the door slid open and shut again, leaving her once more to measure out the hours of her solitary vigil.

* * *

It was the insistent bleeping of the ship's compact biomonitor – or else Adi's hand gently shaking her shoulder – that roused Siri from her unintentional doze. She started upright, blinking confusedly in the dim light, her hand still twined about Obi-Wan's fingers.

"Master?" she said, stupidly, and then blushed, recalling herself to place and time and circumstance.

"Why don't you check on our passengers?" Adi firmly suggested. She consulted the monitor's display, then fixed her padawan with a meaningful look. "I need to change the pressure bandages."

Siri rose stiffly to her feet. "Yes, Master." She turned to the aft hatchway, still flushing. They both knew _why_ it would be more proper for Adi to play the role of field medic, and it had nothing to do with superior rank and experience.

Of course, two of the Young's children had succumbed to space-sickness. She helped lull them into a Force-aided sleep and then looked for cleaning supplies. "Just a moment, I'll be right back."

She passed back through the passenger compartment into the cockpit, determinedly not looking. There was some disinfectant equipment stowed in a bulkhead storage closet. It would have to suffice.

Back through the passenger compartment… _stars end!…_ She blushed yet again and hurried onward-

"Padawan." Adi's lovely deep voice was rife with chagrin.

"I'm sorry, Master." Not turning around. "My feelings are unbecoming… I, I –"

"Siri. Just relax. You're going to have to come to grips with this."

Miserable, the younger woman nodded, and stormed back into the cargo hold to address the issue of unauthorized emesis with all the skill and resourcefulness her training could impart.

Behind her, the Jedi master sighed thoughtfully and returned to her brusque ministrations.

* * *

"Your people will have to stay at the Temple on Coruscant until we can get the legalities sorted out," Mace Windu informed his interim co-pilot. "Given the interdiction status of your world, the Republic cannot technically accept you as refugees."

Nield snorted, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracking the mesmerizing sworls of hypersapce outside the viewport, glazed with wonder. "We don't want government charity anyway."

The Korun master raised his brows. "Core-world customs take some getting used to; whatever you decide to do, I would counsel that you stay together. The capital systems require a set of survival skills very distinct from those you've managed to acquire already."

The dark-haired man laughed bitterly. "I'll bet. I'm sorry to sound like an ingrate… the Young appreciate all that you've done for us. But this… well, we may as well be prisoners. I'm not a fool. I can imagine what kind of existence waits for us as a band of immigrants."

Mace frowned. "I've been thinking. The Order _could_ bypass all the bureaucracy and assign you all to one of the Service Corps." He smiled ruefully at his own daring suggestion. That rogue Jinn must be wearing off on him; nor would this be the first time he had been blackmailed into aiding a group of refugees by a stubborn member of Jinn's line. Not that it was fair to blame this situation on Kenobi, precisely.

"Service Corps, huh?" his companion repeated, suspiciously.

"They establish settlements on colony worlds sometimes. None of you are farmers, but your way of life prepares you for harsh conditions – and technical acumen is always welcome in the ranks."

Nield mulled it over. "Colony world sounds better than Core world to me."

Mace nodded. "Give it some consideration. I'll help smooth the way, if you decide to accept."

Another solemn nod. "I appreciate that, Master Jedi." A long pause. "We never envisioned uprooting and reestablishing ourselves across the stars. It's a lot to digest."

They lapsed into a mutual, pensive silence after that, each man pondering the fate of those under his charge. Nield dwelt upon the future of his beleaguered family, and moreover, of their ideals; Mace brooded on more ominous matters yet. There had been a _presence,_ a vergence almost, a pulsating knot of Darkness upon the destroyed world they had left behind. When they had run into the generator station to apprehend Kenobi, he had felt it like an asphyxiating poison vapor, a breath-taking putrefaction in the Force itself.

The boy –young man – they had captured was shrouded in Darkness, true; there was no denying the palpable emanation of sickness, of black arts, threaded through his aura. But the sheer intensity of that Dark power on the planet's surface had been other, greater, disturbing. It was difficult to rectify that chilling taste of purest evil with Kenobi's softer spirit, or even his innocent face.

On the other hand, appearances could be deceiving, even in the realm of the invisible.

He sighed, innate pragmatism superceding introspection. He would meditate deeply upon this conundrum once they were returned to the Temple. In the meantime –

"There are shipboard rations in the storage lockers." He jerked his head toward the passenger compartment, where a half dozen of Nield's compatriots were stowed. "I would wager the others are famished, and we still have hours before reversion."

* * *

Siri collected the emptied ration packs and compacted them into a ball for the 'cycler. The child called Zilla had consumed two full packages of mandrangea bean hash, a flash-frozen confection unaffectionately nicknamed _bantha-chisszzk_ by the fastidious ranks of junior padawans and therefore avoided with the same assiduous care one would its odiferous namesake.

"You were starving, Zilla."

The small girl toddled after her, to the padawan's acute dismay. She did not consider herself the maternal type. That was more Obi-Wan's line; animals and babies liked him. And on occasion, tentacled plants, too. The memory brought a tiny smile.

"Bi-Wan in there?" A chubby fist pointed in the direction of the passenger hold. Zilla's food-grimed face conveyed genuine worry.

Siri briefly considered wiping the glistening colloidal suspension of half-masticated beans and bubbling drool from the girl's chin, and then thought better of it. Hutts _needed _ their oily skin excretions to remain healthy. Perhaps babies were similar. It would be arrogant to presume knowledge she did not have. "Yes, he's there."

"See him."

"No. He's… sleeping. Very tired."

"Oh." The girl squinted at her, shoving three fingers into her mouth. The stickly dribble was soon joined by another generous rivulet. "You sing?"

"No, sorry." Into the compactor unit went the remains of their shared repast.

"Story?" Zilla demanded, indefatigable.

It was Cerasi who came to her rescue, scooping up the obstreperous child into her own arms. "I'll tell you a story in a moment, Zilla. Don't be a pest."

The girl kicked her legs and leaned back onto Cerasi's shoulder, sucking contemplatively upon four fingers now.

"They don't bite, you know," the older woman confided in the young Jedi.

Siri cocked a brow. Certain cherished memories from her own crèche days stood in grim contradiction to this assertion, but she was a trained diplomat and merely accepted the well-intentioned encouragement with a polite smile.

Cerasi studied her intently, shifting Zilla's weight to the opposite hip.

"Jedi don't form familial attachments," Siri informed her, a defensive edge creeping into her voice without her conscious volition.

"Neither do the Young – but we still _live…_ and love. And make love."

A sharp bow. "Excuse me; my master needs me in the cockpit." She fled the uncomfortable encounter with as much dignity as possible, pausing on her way through the passenger compartment only long enough to bask for two seconds in Obi-Wan's muted presence before skimming through the hatch into Adi's company.

"You are disturbed, Padawan."

Siri opened the nav-comp display and recalculated the time until reversion.

Adi Gallia's expressive mouth quirked into a smile. "We'll arrive when we arrive, not a moment earlier or later."

Her apprentice released a long-suffering sigh at the oft-repeated truism. "Yes, Master."

"I am going to commend your actions during this mission before the Council," Adi told her, a warmth of pride infusing the simple statement. "You put duty before personal feelings, in a difficult situation. It evidences great maturity and dedication to the Force. I am proud."

Siri caught her lower lip between her teeth, a habit which ordinarily would merit mild rebuke. Warped light wove a hypnotic labyrinth outside the thrumming ship's hull. "I don't know if I deserve such praise," she confided in her mentor. "My feelings are conflicted. What will happen when we return? The Council will interrogate him… imprison him…"

Adi touched her arm. "You must release your negative emotions. They will not help his cause, nor your growth in wisdom. "

Siri looked away. "He wanted to die there… what if he was right? What if this is simply prolonging his torment? I want so badly – I _desire_ an outcome that seems so impossible... isn't that a dangerous attachment as well?"

The older woman sighed, brilliant azure eyes peering into the Force itself, focused on the ever mutable shores of the possible. "That is your next trial. One test is superceded by the next, a winding stairway. Focus only on the upward climb, not the summit."

But traditional wisdom seemed an arid, savorless feast, a table laid with stale delicacies and spoiled libations. Cerasi's knowing smile haunted her memory, Zilla's smeared cheeks and bright eyes floating before her inward eye like a battle standard, the challenging pennant of some besieging army.

"You need rest, my siripasa,"Adi gently chided. "Stay here and sleep. I'll handle the piloting."

In the end, obedience and duty won the day. Siri kicked the acceleration couch backward, thrust one arm beneath her head, rested the other hand upon her 'saber's hilt, and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, they were high above Coruscant, the sun glaring fiercely in the forward viewport.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Dawn had yet to soften the lurid edges of Coruscant's nighttime gaudery; the two returning shuttles set down softly upon the landing pad outside the Jedi Temple's southern docking bay, blanketed in twilit warmth.

Their return was not heralded with much pomp or excitement, the news of their arrival having been limited to Yoda and a few select others. The Young descended the ramps first, clutching their younglings by the hand, clustered together as they were ushered into the echoing hangar bay. Nield whistled reverently at the rows of avante garde technology, the sleek vehicles in their docking stations, the droid crew, the cranes and maintenance equipment tucked away against walls and roof. The awed visitors were greeted by the Grand Master and then handed over to the care of a small group of Temple Docents, who would conduct them to temporary accommodations and see that they were provided with food and clean clothing.

Senior Healer Ben To Li and two apprentice healers scurried up the ramp of the second ship, and disappeared within for many long minutes, leaving the ancient master and Qui-Gon Jinn alone on the decks.

When the hover gurney was disgorged form the ship's hold, accompanied by the murmuring clique of healers, Adi Gallia, and her padawan, the tall man started forward only to be brought up short by a smart rap across his knees.

"No," Yoda grunted. "Interfere not. Gravely ill, he is."

Qui-Gon scowled, casting a longing glance at the solemn procession heading toward the interior exit and the nearest lift. Adi and Siri hurried after it, the older woman's arm slung about her apprentice's shoulder as they ducked into the hall beyond.

"Qui-Gon."

He turned to greet Mace, the last of the homecoming party. The Korun Master looked drawn, weighted with new burdens.

"I'm sorry," the senior Councilor said, briefly clasping his friend's shoulder. And then he, too, wearily trod his way toward the doors.

Yoda, leaning upon his stick at Qui-Gon's side, cleared his throat noisily. "Take heart; alive he is."

Pallid consolation it might be, but it was all that he had to grasp. Qui-Gon nodded, and trailed after the others, his lengthy stride weighted with unspoken grief.

* * *

"Our basis of knowledge is not reliable," Ki Adi Mundi pointed out. "Without the witness of the Service Corps team or that of Master Moll, we must rely upon the accounts of the refugees and the extraction team, both of which are limited in scope. To know what transpired, we must have Kenobi's own account."

Mace stirred impatiently. "He's in no condition to be interrogated."

The Cerean nodded his stately head. "Nonetheless, we cannot deliberate upon this matter until we have heard what he has to say for himself."

Depa Billaba sighed. "But can the testimony of one suspected of falling to Darkness be considered reliable?"

"Deceive this Council, he will not," Yoda grunted. "Wait we must. Ben To's report I will hear in person; when able to be interviewed the padawan is, summon him we shall."

Dooku peered at the circle of his peers over loosely interlaced fingers. "You assume he is safe to have loose about the Temple? We cannot allow the possibility of another death."

Mace grimaced. It was true; one murder had already been committed. They would be remiss in their duty as protectors of the Order if they did not take measures. "Cautions will be taken, once he is recovered enough to leave the healers' care… the safety of innocents in this Temple is our first priority." He released his own breath, banishing a twist of guilt. The "measures" to which he alluded were seldom employed, harsh safeguards designed to contain a dangerous and Dark Force user.

Dooku nodded, grimly satisfied. "We cannot countenance another Xanatos Du Crion," he reminded his colleagues. "Sentimentality is not a temptation we can afford to indulge in such straits."

Yoda glowered at the elegant Sentinel. "Accuse you of such weakness, the Council does not," he chuffed, pointedly. "Abandoned the boy in the first place, you did."

The silver haired Jedi smiled thinly, bowing his acknowledgement of the hit.

"Very well," Mace concluded, deeming further discussion counterproductive. "We will wait to hear Kenobi's side of the story before passing any judgment."

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn was skulking about the garden courtyard and foyer of the Halls of Healing, pacing like a frantic colwar separated from its kit.

"Into your customary rut, you have fallen, Master Jinn," Yoda snorted, skimming by on his hover chair, its repulsors conveniently calibrated to perch him at eye level to the rest of the world.

The tall man fell into place beside him. "Why have I been debarred from my padawan?"

A contemptuous snort. "Your apprentice, Obi-Wan is _not._"

"Surely you do not consider him rightfully bound to Dooku? The man repudiated him, on an alien world without hope of escape or survival. Pirates maroon their own criminals with a greater sense of decency!"

The Grand Master _tsk_ed mockingly. "Ooooh, sanctimonious you are today, Qui-Gon. Righteous and indignant. Inspired to rectitude, I am."

The victim of this taunt bit back any rebuttal. "Master. I might be able to help. You know this is true."

Yoda brought his floating conveyance to a gently humming halt. His green-gold eyes widened sarcastically. "Teach Ben To Li his art will you now, also? _Much_ wisdom have you brought back to us from the Whills."

A muscle in Qui-Gon's jaw leapt, but he clamped down upon his temper. "It has been _two years_ since I've seen him, spoken to him. Surely -"

"Surely wait a little longer you can," the ancient Jedi rudely interrupted him, "Since liberal you have been with your wasted time thus far, hm."

The repeated insults found their mark. Qui-Gon stared at the green troll furiously, mouth pressed in a thin line.

"Hhhmmm?" Yoda challenged him, back straightening, ears perking upward, face wrinkling into a gargoylish mass of lines and crenellations, a clear and unequivocal dare, the sort of invitation that would inevitably provoke a violent confrontation – and the consequent chastisement - in the crèche or initiate dorms.

With a tremendous effort, the tall man thrust both hands into opposite sleeves and executed a tart, shallow bow. "Yes, my Master," he ground out, the show of submission somewhat marred by the feral growl undergirding his voice.

But it satisfied the relentless old magister. "Better, Qui-Gon. Better."

"If you are finished improving the character of the younger generation, Master," a third voice chimed in, "I will be happy to see you now."

"Ben To." Yoda huffed. "Speak to you about young Obi-Wan, I would." A magnanimous wave of his clawed hand at Qui-Gon. "Allow Master Jinn to hear the news also, we shall Pester me into Force he will, if thwart him we do."

The healer's bushy silver brows shot upward. "I have empty cots and a very strong sedative on hand." He led the way into his private office, stopping to murmur instructions at one or two scurrying apprentice healers as they passed into his inner sanctum.

Ben To spread long, gnarled fingers upon the polished desk top, fixing Yoda with a grave look. "It has been a long day."

"His condition," the Grand Master rasped. "How serious?"

The healer raised a hand to twist at his pointed beard, eyes sliding sideways to encompass Qui-Gon in the conversation. He exhaled, then launched into his exposition with professional concision, ticking off point on his fingers as he discoursed. "Malnutrition, dehydration, sleep deprivation we can address easily enough. There is a significant lightsaber wound to his left thigh- Master Gallia's intervention of the return journey has helped considerably there. I have hopes that the wound will be repaired fully in time."

"Self inflicted?" the Grand Master inquired.

Ben To's bristling brows twitched. "He thrust hard and straight at an awkward angle, if so. And I doubt the blunt trauma to his ribs and jawbone were self-inflicted. I would guess two good, expertly placed kicks in a combat situation."

Yoda sighed. "Yarriss Moll. Duel, they might have."

The healer continued detachedly. "Those injuries aside, he is also suffering from acute nervous exhaustion, and chronic inflammation of the spinal meninges, major nerve pathways and brain cortex."

Qui-Gon hissed audibly.

"Calm yourself, Jinn. I am not an incompetent," Ben To Li sniffed. "When normal methods yielded no answers, I resorted to micro-imaging technology. Fifteen scans later and we discovered the cause." He paused dramatically, leaning forward. "Upwards of twenty million nano-droids implanted inside his nerve tissues. Force knows _how_ or _why - _ but thankfully, every one of them is deactivated. Fried clean out. It's simply the presence of so many foreign microbial bodies that provoked the reaction. We're working on flushing those out - gradually. It can't be done too abruptly in his state."

Yoda grumbled beneath his breath. "Responsible for this, Sifo-Dyas is."

"Yes," the senior healer agreed ruefully. "And there's more. An old scarline on his chest has been reopened, and resists all attempts at healing. There is a very Dark signature about it… I fear it is beyond my expertise."

A jolt of dread passed through Qui-Gon's very bones. "Nothing can be done to remedy it?"

"I didn't say _nothing,"_Ben To snapped. "But I will require the assistance of someone more familiar with ... perverse arts."

"Send Dooku to you, I will," Yoda pledged. "Perhaps together you may succeed."

The healer inclined his head gravely. "You wish to ask something more, Master?"

Here the ancient Jedi's ears drooped. "To interrogate your patient, the Council wishes," he snuffed. "Able to be questioned soon, will he be?"

Ben To stiffened. "Four days at the minimum. And when you say interrogated –"

"Murder, is he accused of. Atrocities. Presumed dangerous, he must be; cautions must be taken."

"Then make it a week," the healer replied, tightly. "And I do not hold with _precautions,_as you euphemistically term such cruelty. Know that I will have nothing to do with such abuse. It violates my oath."

Yoda's eyes shut, face rumpling in distaste. "Done, it must be. The truth, must we ferret out – and protect the Order. Two days, you have."

"By the Force!" Ben To exclaimed, in disgust. "Send the Council my _regards_."

Yoda snorted sardonically and maneuvered his chair toward the door, shoulders slumping beneath his frayed robe. "Luxury of disapproval you have, Ben To," he grunted, sparing Qui-Gon a final penetrating look before he disappeared into the outside corridor.

The tall man bestowed a beaming smile upon the old healer, his new and unexpected ally. "We find ourselves upon the same side of a pitched conflict, at long last."

Ben To Li twisted his beard and cocked one brow at the Order's resident maverick. "Adversity makes for strange bedfellows," he quipped. "But I still don't want you underfoot here, Jinn."

"Let me see him. One minute, Ben To. Please."

"Very well. Pay your respects and make yourself scarce.. before they decide to collar you, too." A glint of sympathy kindled behind his bright eyes, blunting the asperity of his tone.

Qui-Gon bowed his gratitude and hurried out.

* * *

Even scruffily bearded and haggard, far past the impish appeal of childhood, Obi-Wan still managed to look _innocent_ when asleep. Qui-Gon cast a look of withering disdain upon the horde of medical machines gathered about the cot like battening scavengers, and leaned forward to gently finger the loose threads of chestnut hair, remnants of an unbound padawan's braid. With a deep pang beneath his ribs, he swore to see it restored to proper condition. That, and the rest of the disorderly, roguish mop trimmed back to regulation length. And the beard could stand to go, too.

"Obi-Wan."

It had been so long. Too long. He gazed upon the young Jedi as though seeing him for the first time, aching with the irretrievable passage of time. If only he could _speak_ to his appren – _former_ apprentice – and hear those familiar lilting tones, the inevitable sarcastic backlash to whatever he had to say. He found himself _wishing_ for a display of sly impertinence, or a cleverly conducted dispute – or even the kind of indignant anger that drove Obi-Wan to the heights of vitriolic eloquence.

He would take what he could get.

"Padawan."

But Obi-Wan remained sunk deep beneath consciousness, hard in the clutches of a chemical haze and the dregs of a healing trance. The tall Jedi master released a soft sigh of disappointment, then hesitated, daring to hope.

He prodded very delicately in the Force, seeking a connection that he knew still lingered, despite betrayal and long absence, suffering and confusion.

_Obi-Wan. Padawan. Hear me._

There was a slight shimmering response: inchoate, formless. But still. The tall man laid one hand over the padawan's chest and reached deeper into the Force. Surely, surely…

_Padawan. Wake up. Just for a moment. Open your eyes for me._

He thought he caught the faintest sense of "master?" emanating from somewhere in the plenum's obscurest depths, but he could not be sure until the trademark line appeared between the young Jedi's brows, accompanied by a soft grunt that _might _ have been a grumbling protest. A pair of blue eyes cracked open, pupils widely dilated, focus untrained, and then fluttered shut again. And that was all.

But it was something. Qui-Gon brushed the offending mass of hair back, hand lingering upon the padawan's head for a moment, and then straightened to take his leave.

Master Yoda lurked in the open doorframe, watching with melancholy, luminous eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Supreme Chancellor Finis Valorum favored his guest with a gracious smile. "Master Dooku. Thank you so much for meeting us." He extended his arm to the lavish Chancellior office's third occupant. "May I introduce Senator Palpatine, of Naboo."

The Sentinel executed another elegant bow to the politican standing on Valorum's right: middle aged, graying hair coiffed in a dreadful outer Rim style, sumptuous garments a tad too opulent to really be in good taste by Dooku's standards, a face plastered with an avuncular and entirely disingenuous smile. He was inclined to dismiss the bumpkin out of hand, but to do so in Valorum's presence would be highly impolitic and ill-mannered.

"I am honored," the Nubian smiled. He was a thespian, this one, down to his core.

Valorum signaled that they should sit. A silver protocol unit served up chilled wine, another abomination which Dooku waved away with a small moue of regret – _alas, the Code forbids it- _ and the Republic's supreme leader launched into business without further preamble.

"Senator Palpatine was appalled to hear of the purported abuses committed by the Republic Defense Fund's administration. I hope you will not resent my taking him into this confidence."

"Of course not," Dooku purred, cursing the dolt for extending such sensitive intelligence to a parochial poseur who drank his wine _cold _ and wore _smocked sleeves._

Palpatine put on his own show, naturally. "It grieves me to learn of such heinous misappropriation of the people's resources. There is- you will understand my reticence in sharing too many details – but let us say, an unofficial committee of concerned public servants who would like to investigate such abuses within the Senate."

Well, well, well. Appearances could be deceiving. Dooku tilted his head to the side and accepted a glass of the blasphemously mistreated wine after all. He could Feel the man's intelligence like a strong undertow beneath the harmless façade. So. A dejarik player. One who knew _exactly_ how to shield his intentions – and , remarkably, was strong minded enough to be effectually Force opaque.

Such a man might be useful, he determined. "Tell me more," the Jedi master replied, leaning back casually and crossing his long legs.

* * *

"You're late."

Mace Windu scoffed at the accusation. "You're lucky to be here, Qui. Technically, this dojo is reserved for Masters of the Order. You're in on the guest clause."

The tall man bowed, sardonic. "I am honored."

"Besides,"- Mace stripped down to a single tunic and unclipped his weapon- "I was delayed by your padawan's pathetic life forms."

This pleased Qui-Gon on more than one level. "My padawan?"

The Korun ignored his own slip of tongue. "The Young are settling into life here about as well as might be expected." A sly grin. "Like a herd of banthas in a china shop."

They faced off across the open floor, saluting each other breezily. The 'sabers hummed with delighted anticipation of mayhem to come. "The blame need not always be apportioned to the banthas," Qui-Gon pointed out. "Shopkeepers can sometimes harbor unrealistic expectations."

"Ha! I knew you would take the side of the underdog – which is why I've transferred their accommodations to the south lower level residence wing. You don't mind a little interruption of your serenity, do you?"

The revelation that his hitherto private retreat was being earmarked as haven to a boisterous group including several toddlers _not_ brought up with the benefit of Temple education did the trick. "You didn't," the tall man growled.

"Seniority, my friend," Mace smirked, spinning his blade in a flashy salute.

"I'll show you _seniority."_ Qui-Gon launched himself into the fray, determined to pound his childhood friend into the scarred floorboards once and for all.

It was the best sparring match either of them had enjoyed in a long, long time.

* * *

_Well. Look where you've landed yourself now._

Obi-Wan gingerly slatted open his eyes, squinting in the harsh influx of sterile white lighting, the ubiquitous obligatory glare of medcenters everywhere in the galaxy.

_I told you surrender was a bad option._

He shifted, gradually returning to his body, to full wakefulness, vexed by the coarse texture of the sheet beneath him, the scent of… was it bacta? Somewhere in the too-cold neatly scrubbed air. No, not bacta, exactly. Bacta and _incense, _ mingled together.

How nauseating. He sat up, woozy with the sudden return to perpendicularity. Temple. Halls of Healing. His head _kriffing hurt._

"Easy, easy, easy," a once familiar voice murmured. Dark and light shaped blurred and coalesced, eclipsing the obnoxious lamp, then dimming its blinding radiance.

Obi-Wan took stock of his surroundings. Medical couch, various machines, hovering sycophantic med-droid, bare walls, locked door.

Locked door. He reached out with the Force and toggled the magnetic release. The panel hissed open. Better.

_You're still a prisoner._

"Imprisonment is a state of mind," he blithely informed his pessimistic alter ego.

Ben To Li peered at him curiously. "Quoting Master Seva and resenting your interment in my domain. I see you're feeling quite chipper this morning."

"Master Li." He rubbed at his aching temples, vainly attempting to piece together his personal history between that last rather pleasant tête-à-tête with Siri and this rather unpleasant moment. He came up blank.

It must have shown on his face, for the healer chuckled softly and perched himself at the foot of the bed. "You don't remember anything because you've been heavily sedated for almost three days."

"Oh." There was no point explaining to Master Li that he was quite inured to missing chunks in his narrative recollection. Presumably he had not killed anyone during this latest hiatus, so he decided to count that as a victory.

_Don't rest on your laurels, Kenobi. Get out of here._

Yes. Escape. But… it was surely not so simple. "How many guards are in that corridor?" he asked, scowling.

Ben To sighed and fingered his sharply pointed beard. "Ah. Two, and two others at the main entrance. And of course a Temple chock full of Force sensitive trained warriors. Don't try anything stupid. Besides, you're better off with me, Padawan."

_He's placating you. Don't be lulled into false security._

"I'm not a padawan anymore," he reminded his host, bitterly.

"No? Then what are you?"

_Shields up, you idiot! He's trying to assess your mental state!_

"I know that!" he snapped at his garrulous doppleganger.

Ben To's brows came together sharply.

"I'm a dangerous criminal," he snarled at the healer. "And-" for the sake of present company- "A raving lunatic."

The healer stroked his chin, thoughtfully. Obi-Wan grew weary of the quiet dissection of his all too apparent vulnerabilities and slid out of bed. "Can't I have some Sith-damned _clothing?_"he demanded, ignoring the pounding spikes at the back of his skull. Force…

"Clean things are in the storage locker down the hall," Ben To placidly replied. "Help yourself."

Fine. He savagely wrenched the sheet out from under the healer's insufferable skinny rump and slung it about his hips, sauntering into the hall – well, _limping_ badly on his partially healed leg into the hall – and favoring the posted sentries with a death glare intense enough to melt through durasteel. The two junior ranking Knights – he could not place them by name – exchanged a startled glance with one another but subsided into amused detachment when Ben To Li followed him into the corridor.

"It's not a carnival sideshow," the young Jedi complained, chucking the sheet back at his audience and sorting through the laundered garments of a serviceable pair of trousers and a tunic. For the love of…

He finished his hasty toilette by raking both hands through his hair. Ben To and his minions still appeared altogether too amused for his liking. "Vanity is not the Jedi way," he drawled at them, feet falling shoulders' width apart, into ready battle stance.

"If you're finished with this boorish display, I'd like to confer with you privately," the healer said.

_It's a trap. They're toying with you. Don't let yourself be distracted._

The short walk to Ben To's private domain at the opposite end of the sprawling ward left him aching and exhausted, and also miserably contrite. "Master Li… please forgive my behavior. I have no excuse.. I …"

But his protestations were waved aside. "Just sit down here, that's it, and answer a few questions for me. If I have food sent in here, I don't suppose you'll eat? No? I didn't think so – but your appetite should return soon."

Obi-Wan warily settled into a chair and massaged his neck. Headache blurred his vision.

"I'm sorry about that – it's a common aftereffect of that drug."

"I'm fine."

Ben To snorted. "Tell me about that wound on your chest. How did you come by that?"

The young Jedi absently rubbed at his sternum, where thick bandaging obscured the thin cut laid into his flesh on Melida-Daan all those months ago. "Sifo-Dyas did it," he explained, tersely. "With my knife… he poured something into it, too." He frowned, dredging up the horrific memory from the volcanic fallout of recent trauma. He found the scrap of recollection at the bottom of a common grave, the dark pit into which he had consigned most his tenure on the doomed world.

"Do you know what?"

He shook his head. "No. Dathomiri magic, he said. It was… well. I would not request an encore."

"And the cut has never healed, in all that time."

A shrug. "It reopens.. and bleeds. And…" Obi-Wan glanced up, wondering whether the healer were indeed to be trusted.

_What does it matter?_ his cynical inner voice interjected. _You don't deserve friends._

But it was such a blessed relief to _say_ it aloud. "I think… it got inside me, somehow. I can feel it – in my mind – it takes over for long periods of time, when I'm not expecting it. I can't remember anything that happens when that occurs. I wander about. I do … things." His voice dropped. "I kill people."

There was a long silence, in which Ben To tactfully ignored his companions' hitching breaths. He dismissed the guards loitering just outside the door with a brusque gesture and laid one consoling hand upon the back of Obi-Wan's neck. "I want you to eat something, and to try meditating in the solarium here. You've been starving for sustenance and Light for months… let's work on restoring a bit of balance."

_Too little, far too late._

"Shut up," he snarled at the Other.

Ben To Li had the good manners to feign obliviousness.

* * *

Siri filed into the Hall of Remembrance beside her master, their cowls drawn well over their faces, cloaks closed at their throats in accord with tradition. They took up posiitoin in one of the higher tiers, slipping past other Jedi, rank upon rank of solemn witnesses gathered to give due memorial to the Iktochi Master Yarriss Moll.

The Sentinel's remains were wrapped in shrouding cloths, for his first and failed pyre had disfigured the corpse. Atop the white linen the native _inue_ blossoms of his homeworld were strewn, blood red droplets upon snowy slopes. The tinder was piled high, the words of the ceremony intoned gravely by Master Yoda.

_To fall in body is naught; to fall in spirit the only true defeat. _

Beside her, Adi lent mute support, softly encircling her wrist with strong fingers and applying a gentle pressure of encouragement. Siri released a long breath, eyes fixed upon the climbing flames, the liquid fire that danced upon the oil-soaked body, the smoke that rose in twining pillars to the ceiling vents and thus to the clouds, the floating ash of Coruscant's hazy skies.

_Servant of Light, return now and claim thy rightful rest._

Moll, a stern figure in life, intimidating in appearance, committed to a vocation that demanded terrible proximity to Darkness, had been fond of the ancient rite, the more florid and sentimental poetry of a more civilized age.

Honor me not with tears but in deeds of justice; grieve not for me but rejoice for what the Light has wrought.

Around them, the assembly slowly dispersed, long drapes of umber and deepest black concealing rank and identitiy, swathing them in uniform humility, in the radical equality of mortal existence.

_There is no death. There is the Force._


	14. Chapter 14

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The solarium was a place of peerless tranquility.

Obi-Wan knelt in the very center, where an angled shaft of late-day radiance pooled upon the mosaic path. He closed his eyes, afloat in simple warmth, unfurling his soul into the Force. Each slow meditative breath drew in the earthy tang of soil and plant, blended with the subtle chimes of the fountain. The transparent roof panels sheltered a well-ordered geometry of life beneath their graceful curves – not the riotous abundance, the wild wisdom of the arboretum at the Temple's center, nor the rigid and stately colonnades of the outside gardens, but an intimate, refreshing sanctuary of light and sound, shadow and quiet.

It was a place to seek balance and healing.

_Why bother?_ _You're lost already._

But deeper instinct bade him seek that elusive center anyway. He already knew his fate, the deserved recompense of atrocities committed. The knowledge was liberating, for it chiseled and smoothed the contours of his duty. He had but _one_ task, and that was to face the end as a Jedi. The path led inevitably to disaster, but that did not mean he must tread it in dread and trembling.

He could hold his head high in the face of death. He could smile, and accept.

Exhale. Release. The sun sank a bit further along its ecliptic, and his beam of golden luminance moved, sliding past him to trace melting patterns upon the wall. He shivered, wishing he had thought to bring a cloak or blanket, irrationally disturbed by the change in the light.

The two guards assigned to haunt his steps within the healers' precinct had respectfully remained outside the door, not wishing to impose upon his silent communion with the Force. Jedi were always impeccably polite, even to prisoners, especially to Jedi prisoners. But a part of him shuddered in the solitude and emptiness of the chamber, the eerie silver glow of the tiny lamps along the path, the shift from day into night.

He was cold. And his scar hurt… ached, oozed sticky blood.

His heart skipped. Inhale. Deeper. _Fear leads to anger, anger leads to-_

Green mist, rising to fill the hollowed spaces between drooping fronds, flowing between the labyrinthine twists of the path, blotting out the rafters overhead. No. No. Not here in the Temple, with so many innocents.

Breathe.

Blackness swirled at the garden's edges, the fountains overflowing now with a dark tide, a rushing storm of malice, a flooding river of hate. He thrashed, and cried out, but his voice was lost to the thundering of the dank waters, and he sank beneath the cruel waves, lost forever.

* * *

Zilla shrieked loudly, scampering down the corridor in hot pursuit of Teo. The headlong chase zig-zagged erratically along the hall, the shrill echoes of infantile delight multiplied by the bare walls and polished floor.

Siri Tachi winced, dodged fluidly to one side before the younglings could barrel her over, and then tapped upon the farthest door.

"Come in," Cerasi grinned, gesturing her into the sparsely furnished chamber beyond. Neild and an intent circle of peers murmured among themselves, a wreath of bacci smoke curling to the pale roof.

"Oh… ah…." There was no _explicit ban_ on smoking, however… and many Jedi burned incense at all hours. The 'cyclers could handle the overload.

The older woman pulled her in by the arm. "We're going to do it. We're going to join the Service Corps. We've been looking at holomaps and docu-clips all day."

Outside, the boisterous game of tag devolved into a wrestling match replete with ear-splitting exclamations of enjoyment. Siri waved the door closed behind her, trying not to gag on the thick air.

"I wish you well in that endeavor," Siri replied. "I've come – well, I've been sent - as ambassador. The Order wanted to request that your younglings be tested."

The words held no meaning for Cerasi. "For what? Diseases? We already did that – people were here with scanners and sample kits, we had a whole spate of meds and injections."

"No," the young Jedi hedged. "But it is possible that one or more of them might be Force sensitive… able to be an initiate of the Order." She did not say Teo's name, though he was the only one with a significant Force signature, and the only one still at an ideal age to begin training.

"You mean… leave one of them behind? Here?"

Siri nodded. "If you decided to transfer custody, the Republic recognizes a permanent adoption. The child is raised here in the Temple, and when he comes of age he is either inducted permanently as a padawan – an apprentice to a Knight or Master, or else assigned to the Service Corps, if his potential is not great enough to serve as a full member."

Cerasi's arms constricted in a knot over her chest. "You want to take one of our younglings. As … what? Payment?"

"No- no, you misunderstand. We offer this to people throughout the galaxy, to –"

"You demand it, more like. Fark! Look around you! This is all that remains of the Young. Of our whole world. And you want to take another piece of it away from us?" She shook her head emphatically. "I'm not losing any more babies."

Siri dipped her head. "I'll convey your answer to the crèche masters. It was not intended to give offense."

Cerasi shifted weight from foot to foot, impatient. "I'm sorry," she said. "This whole... place – all of you – it's bizarre." She released an exasperated breath. "It's like a distorted reflection of our own dreams – more like a nightmare. I don't know." She shrugged and smiled, a little. "No offense."

"None taken." The young Jedi bowed, withdrawing as gracefully as possible.

* * *

Qui-Gon felt it as a powerful constriction in his own lungs, a spasm as though he had aspirated filthy swamp mud. He clutched at his chest and gasped for air like an asthmatic, one hand splayed upon the lift's curved inner surface.

A moment later, he had keyed it to an emergency halt, dashing onto the fourth level mezzanine and flying down the connecting concourse at breakneck speed, gathering to himself the appalled stares of other Jedi. His boots flew; he leapt down a double stairwell in one bound, vaulted across the Hall-of-Unity-in-Fraternal-Purpose 's upper reaches and took a flying shortcut through the maintenance hallway on the opposite wing.

His desperate flight outraced his comm-link's signal by several seconds.

"Qui-Gon , you had better –" Mace said, cutting the words short as the man himself stormed into the chaotic healers' ward.

"What is it? Where is he?" the tall man demanded, seeing the evidence of disaster scattered all about him.

Ben To Li hustled forward, long hair coming loose from its braid. "He took the first two off guard and evaded the sentries by the outer doors – I don't know _how-_ and I need all personnel on shift to sort this mess." He thrust a hand at the disorder in the halls. "And MD-4o is going to need a re-boot. Medical droids are not meant to be employed as projectile weapons."

"Is anyone hurt?" Qui-Gon barked. How many, how many this time?

Ben To grunted. "Not badly, thank the Force – he opted to subdue and run, not inflict real damage. What are you waiting for? Go. Go!"

Recognizing the warning in the healer's tone, the injunction to _find Obi-Wan_ before the padawan wreaked more havoc, before a less sympathetic agent discovered him first – he spun on his heel and headed for the doors.

"I've got the Temple on lockdown – and the younglings are in emergency safety drill." Mace bellowed after him. "Jinn- this is your only chance. If he harms a single _one_ –'

"I understand," the tall man spat, breaking into a full sprint.

* * *

Thank the Force for small mercies – Qui-Gon had no trouble following the blazing trail left in the Force by his maddened former padawan. The young Jedi was no fool, and was well acquainted with the Temple's standard lock-down procedures; he avoided the hangar bays, which would be blocked by blast doors, and skirted the more populated levels of the Temple, making a circuitous but only seemingly erratic dash for the main entry stairwell and the Grand Plaza at the foundation, the same seldom employed steps upon which Qui-Gon had formally abased himself upon his own return.

The tall man reached the shadow of the massive edifice panting, almost clutching at a stitch in his side. He was not yet entirely in fighting form, still conditioning muscles too long neglected and starved by his months-long fast among the Whills. The sparring match with Mace had left him wrung out, feeling his age – but he summoned new strength from the Force itself, and flung himself headlong after the figure charging for the main promenade's terminus.

"Obi-Wan!" he hollered, infusing the syllables with every ounce of authority he possessed.

No effect.

The padawan's path was blocked by a foursome of gate sentinels, armed with energy pikes and stun blasters. A 'saber's blade – green, something filched off one of the felled Knights in the med-ward, perhaps – spat into furious life, batted away bolts with deadly precision. Obi-Wan's movements had the fluidity of ravening fire, a wild untamed grace. Bolts rebounded into the men, who toppled where they stood. And the refugee bounded forward again, taking the steps four at a time.

Qui-Gon soared after him, bypassing the stairs entirely, launching himself in a single swooping dive at the padawan's back. They collided, spun, tumbled down the remaining incline and hit the lower plaza hard, the 'saber hilt clattering out of Obi-Wan's hand as his wrist slammed into the marble pavers.

Qui-Gon closed with him hand to hand, calling his name repeatedly –

But it was useless. The young Jedi's eyes were wide open, but sightless, his body drenched in a cold sweat, his every tendon straining like a hawser as he struggled to break the Jedi master's grip. The Force about him was a seething pandemonium, black and light and terror and fear and sheer _indomitability_ raging around him in an inferno. Qui-Gon battered at his shields, screamed in his ear, and vied to gain the upper hand.

It was like wrestling a young krayt dragon – outmatched in size, Obi-Wan writhed and kicked like a demon, landing blows and evading holds with the whiplash power of a serpent, of bodiless wind. Qui-Gon cursed and struggled against him, absorbing punishing strikes and using his brute superiority in weight and height to crush the younger man beneath him in a stranglehold.

And even then the contest was not over. Obi-Wan thrashed and screamed, and twisted hard enough to dislocate a shoulder. The tall man held on, breathless now in earnest, unsure how much longer he could keep his prisoner subdued. Running footsteps sounded above, and the Force flared with the arrival of reinforcements.

"Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan! Stop this!"

No answer.

He flipped the captive over and ground a knee into his solar plexus. The padawan's teeth were gritted in pain, but he only snarled some incoherent defiance and strained harder, veins in his temples and neck standing out. Qui-Gon sucked in his own shuddering breaths, lungs searing with the exertion, heart pounding frantically beneath his ribs. He raised his hand and swallowed.

An open handed strike across the cheekbone, enough to knock Obi-Wan's head sideways.

"Padawan!"

The body pinned beneath him went limp, uncomprehending shock swiftly supplanting the fury and desperation that had reigned a second earlier. Blue eyes searched his face, clarity dawning where mindless nightmare had darkly scudded.

Obi-Wan choked on his gasp.

Qui-Gon crouched over him, still holding him down, bereft of words, heart aching.

"Master?"

The others pounded to a standstill, a convocation of shades gathered about them. Two were Temple guards, masked and armed.

"Master…?"

Mace was there. "Qui-Gon. Let us take him."

Obi-Wan lay there unresisting, staring up at him in stuporous disbelief.

"Qui. Now."

He stumbled upright as strong hands took his elbows, steadied him. The hooded guards seized the unprotesting prisoner in a firm grip, levering him onto his knees. He slumped between them, eyes never leaving Qui-Gon's face, an oceanic abyss of emotion behind their glazing surface.

Mace was swift and efficient. He stepped behind the guards and fastened the collar on with one brusque motion.

Qui-Gon had to look away. The scream of agony that split the Force was – perhaps – only audible to him, but it squeezed the breath from his already laboring lungs.

The Korun master's hand was upon his back. "Are you all right, old man?"

He shook his head, not daring to speak as the guards grimly dragged his sweet, brave boy away, beaten and shackled like the dangerous criminal he was.

"I'm sorry," Mace said, helplessly. "Qui... I'm so sorry."


	15. Chapter 15

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Ro-Shu – the youngest of the apprentice healers, at a mere eleven standard years old – was quietly weeping in the corridor outside.

"I'm sorry, Master, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the boy gibbered, scales flushing a delicate violet in mortification.

Ben To Li drew one arm around his small protégé's shoulders. "Now, now," he chided. "I quite understand. Chiro," he added to another of his underlings, "More thermal blankets and make some tea. Yes, tea! Don't stand there gawking, do as I say."

"Yes, Master." The second apprentice scurried away.

"Now, Ro-Shu, that's fine, Padawan, don't wipe your face. I can use you. Come in here with me, don't be upset, let's face this head on." He propelled the reluctant child through the door, one tendon knotted hand firmly planted upon his slim shoulder.

"Oh," Ro-Shu peeped. "Oh."

Ben To sighed and addressed the small room's occupant. "_Breathe, _ Kenobi, hypoxemia won't make matters any better. And I've brought you a visitor."

The young Jedi turned his face away from the wall, eyes softening as they lit upon the distressed younger padawan.

"Does it hurt?" Ro-Shu blurted, scales deepening to mauve.

A frown. "Only at first. It's not so bad," Obi-Wan lied.

"You're lying," the tactless youngling pointed out.

"I'm … all right," his interlocutor argued. "Look at me. I'm not doing so badly, am I?"

Ro-Shu's head tilted to one side, quizzically, sensitive cranial ridge rippling faintly. "But you're cold and and…" A gulp. "I can _feel_ it – you're scared."

A shrug. "So? It's only fear." Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, a ritual cleansing breath. "That's nothing to be concerned about."

The apprentice healer nodded solemnly, then tugged upon Ben To's tunic sleeve. "Master?"

"Go fetch tea," the senior Jedi ordered, stroking his beard as the much relieved youngling scampered out again on his errand.

"You can take off these restraints. I'm not going on a rampage again."

Ben To complied with the request, helping his shivering patient sit upright Obi-Wan brushed fingers over the sleek band of thanatosine alloy about his neck and took another measured calming breath. He blinked and looked away as the healer sat down beside him on the cot's edge.

"Did I…? Did I – who did I…?"

A hand settled on his knee. "Nobody. Well. You did leave Knights Sar'chu and Celsior with some nasty bruises, and took out four gate sentries with their own stun blasts. And you may owe me a new medical droid after the beating MD40 took at your hands. But for the most part you simply ran like a hawkbat out of the nine hells – a break for freedom."

Obi-Wan slumped in relief, running two hands distractedly through his hair. "Before… in the garden…. I thought I was going to go on a killing spree in the Temple." His throat closed. A hard swallow. "I am dangerous." His mouth twisted bitterly.

Chirp arrived with blankets and the tea; she beat a hasty retreat as soon as the delivery was made. Ben To wrapped his companion in two more thermal sheets and pressed a hot ceramplast mug into his hands.

"_Tea, _ master?"

"It soothes all ills but the greatest ones," the healer replied. "And those we shall defer until I've had my tea."

They drank in silence, one huddled miserably in his own thoughts, the other patiently watching.

At last Obi-Wan broached the topic. "What about Qui-Gon?" Deep breath, struggling for a sense of equilibrium, in absence of the Force. "Is he here? I can't feel him. Anything." A furious scowl.

Ben To nodded. "He's in the waiting rooms, haranguing the staff. Do you wish to see him?"

The young Jedi closed his eyes. "No. Tell him to go away."

The healer collected both cups. "That is not a particularly compassionate message."

Obi-Wan's mouth hardened. "I was an attentive student."

* * *

_He doesn't wish to see you._

The words burned into his mind, a molten brand of rejection, of blame. Qui-Gon Jinn was not a man given to regret, but the smoldering accusation behind Obi-Wan's message wrung the unfamiliar sentiment out of him. He bitterly recalled his own simple evasion of the padawan's plea for him to stay in the Order, to abandon his quest for the sake of present duty. What had he said, two years ago?

_I will do what I must, Obi-Wan._

And look what had befallen the one left behind.

It had seemed simple – if painful – at the crossroads. They would either walk their path together, or apart. But now, at journey's end, he saw that fate admitted of no such clean dichotomies. He and his former apprentice had still, somehow, been bound to each other's paths, one twined about the other despite distance and even sentient choice. The oaths which had compacted their lives into a meandering knot : student, teacher, the Force – these had withstood the mere vicissitudes of circumstance. They had held firm, like an anchor weight tying two drowning men together, pulling one down into the deeps after the other.

It was cruel, but profoundly true: all things were interconnected in the Force. He, Qui-Gon, should have known better. His destiny was woven into Obi-Wan's whether he would or no; his neglect had of necessity issued into suffering, his refusal of mutuality warping his student's reality to accommodate the absence of a _proper_ mentor. By denying the padawan his rightful path, the one ordained by the Force and sanctified by willing submission and age-old rite, he had forced the young man onto a shadowed alternate, the _might-have-been, _the road to perdition.

The tall man lengthened his strides, heading for the scant refuge of his temporary quarters. Meditation would, as always, be his last and surest refuge. If the Living Force could grant clarity, perhaps also it could show him the return path, the unmaking of his grave mistakes.

Jedi inside the Temple, where theft and invasion of privacy were little concern, seldom locked doors. Nonetheless, he was disconcerted to discover his monastic retreat had been appropriated by a band of meddlesome toddlers during his absence. Crumbs bedecked every surface; a scattering of toys borrowed from the crèche lay underfoot; the energetic pirate crew itself bumbled about on the room's sleep couch, churning the coverlet into disarray.

Qui-Gon halted in the doorframe, taken aback, Mace Windu's name and a particularly filthy Huttese epithet perilously close together on the tip of his tongue.

One of the girls – Zoola, was it? – shrieked at his unheralded arrival, sending the others into similar hysterics.

"Off you go," he ordered, infusing the mild command with a bit of Force influence. The little brigands trooped out into the hall again, where they were herded into another chamber by the adult purportedly "in charge" of their well being. Qui-Gon sighed, and then looked down at the small being tugging upon his boot strap.

The buckle seemed to evoke some bright association in the infant girl's mind, for she raised sticky hands to him, imploring to be picked up. "Go see Bi-Wan now," she demanded..

He hoisted her up. "No, it's time to go _to sleep_ now." He carried her over the threshold and thrust her into the arms of the harried caretaker.

Composure rumpled, and tunic sporting a very suspicious smear of viscous liquid, he returned to his own quarters, swept the offending debris out the door with a wave of one hand, and let the pressure panel slide closed behind him.

* * *

"Let us begin with the most recent events," Ki Adi Mundi suggested, his gentle reedy voice and mild expression both calibrated to soothe the most jangled nerves.

In the Council Chamber's center, encircled by the placid repetition of mosaic tile and by the penetrating gazes of twelve stern judges, Obi-Wan stirred uneasily. Hands in binders before him, weaponless, the Force-suppression collar glinting at his neck, he still managed to stand tall, bearing straight and jaw set. Clad in a dark fitted tunic and trousers, the mess of hair at least neatly bound back in a tie, and the ridiculous scruff on his face trimmed to an acceptably discreet fringe about the edges, he passed Mace Windu's discerning standards of acceptable Jedi grooming by a hairsbreadth margin. The façade of calm was impressive; only the too-carefully measured rise and fall of his chest - and of course his complete transparency without the ability to properly shield – gave him away.

"Yes, Master Mundi," he replied, evenly.

"The Council has no wish to needlessly repeat details with which we are all familiar. Tell us why you left the healers' ward. Was it to escape the consequences of your actions?"

Visibly horrified by the imputation of cowardice, Obi-Wan stiffened. "No. No – I … my only thought was to leave the Temple. To protect others here."

Depa Billaba clasped her hands thoughtfully. "You consider yourself a threat to other Jedi?"

The young man's head came round to face her, eyes liquid with pain. "Master Moll's death is ample evidence of that, Master." He clenched his jaw shut, swallowing.

Mace intervened. "We will discuss that in due time. Suffice it to say you feel yourself to be a threat."

Obi-Wan nodded.

Ki Adi took up the thread again. "On Melida-Daan, you have given us to understand, you suffered similar amnesiac episodes. This is corroborated by the testimony of the refugees who returned with you. Did you flee from other beings during these periods of crisis, as well?"

"Yes. I left whever I felt it coming. I would go out onto the surface, in the city…. I was afraid of what I might do. Sometimes the Fallen would attack me – I would find them cut to pieces afterward. If I had remained with the Young…." He trailed off. "I feared myself."

"Fear leads to the Dark Side," Yoda interjected, watching the young man closely. The focus of all dozen Council members was trained upon him now, an excoriating silent inquisition.

Obi-Wan's gaze fell to the floor, his face coloring as though he had been summarily stripped naked in public. Doubtless the unforgiving psychic examination felt much the same. "Yes, Master Yoda."

"Hhhmmph. Fear of yourself , did you feel, or compassion for potential victims?"

The question proved too difficult to answer. "If ... if it led to hatred, to killing, then it must have been fear, Master." A hesitance, in which he dared to look up at the ancient Jedi. "Mustn't it?"

Yoda grunted, dissatisfied.

Mace steered them out of troublesome waters. "Let me ask you some specific questions that may help shed light on this. Where is Master Moll's 'saber?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, confounded. "I don't know."

No deceit there. "Did you take it?"

"No… I don't remember."

"Why did you destroy the comm circuits in his ship?"

"I don't remember… I don't recall anything pertaining to – to his death."

Again, no deceit, but a vast and churning pit of guilt and grief surrounding the event. The Coucnil exchanged guarded looks.

Mace pressed onward. "Did you have access to a spacecraft while on Melida-Daan?"

This proved a welcome relief. "Yes. Well, a restored starfighter. We had to strip the hyperdrive generator out, but it was functional for atmosphere or low orbit. We used it to bomb out the major production centers for Fallen … until we ran out of ordnance."

The Korun grimly absorbed this revelation. "So you had the ability to blast out the orbital sentries surrounding the planet. Did you do so?"

Obi-Wan was at a loss again. "I …might have. I don't remember. But I could have." He considered it objectively. "Forgive my arrogance, but I think I could do it, even in a single fighter. I don't enjoy that sort of thing, but – "

Ki Adi smiled gently. "Your abilities are not in question. We merely wondered if you were responsible for disabling them, and if so, why."

But this elicited only a slow shake of the head. "I don't remember, I'm sorry."

Oppo Rancisis took his turn. "What about the Republic Service Corps ship that crashed on the planet one month prior to your departure. What can you tell us of that?"

A startled blink. "A Republic ship was sent?"

The Thisspiasian swayed hypnotically in his seat. "Yes. A relief vessel, with full crew."

"I didn't know. We were do desperate by the end.. there weren't any more scouting parties… I – I never made contact with them."

"Indeed? The ship was forced out of orbit by enemy fire, and the crew later slaughtered and the corpses defaced. The culprit wielded a lightsaber."

Stunned silence. Anguish echoed down the halls of the Force. Obi-Wan sank to his knees, speechless, skin blanching.

Adi Gallia cast a fulminating stare at the masked guards posted by the door, arresting them in mid stride. She rose from her own Councilor's seat and approached the stricken prisoner, one hand gently closing round his arm. She ignored the ripple of palpable disapproval emanating from a handful of her colleagues.

"There were two adolescent crew members on board that vessel," Master Poof added. "Recently sent to the Crops form our own initiate clans. You may have recognized them."

Obi-Wan shook his head, desperately. "No."

Adi tightened her grip. "Stand, young one. The Force is strength and truth." A bitter consolation to offer one presently cut off form its vivifying power, but the best she had to offer.

He struggled upward, reeling, She maintained a precautionary grip.

"No," he whispered.

Yoda sighed noisily, casting a trollish glare over the assembly, then addressing the former padawan directly. "More there is to ask. Rest, need you, or finish now should we?"

The allusion to _weakness_ had the predictable effect. "No. I can finish."

Even Piell spoke next. "You suffered a lightsaber vound in your leg. Vas dat in a duel vit Master Moll?"

Obi-Wan turned to the fierce Lannik warrior. "No," he answered. "The Other did that."

"De other?"

The young Jedi frowned, seeking words to express himself. "I hunted him down – in the city. He – he was Dark. I had to stop him."

"_Who _ are we talking about?" Mace demanded, leaning forward in alarm.

Obi-Wan lifted his bound hands helplessly. "Me. The other me. He – he was out there, sometimes. I fought him – I almost won, but… he escaped."

"You fought yourself," Mace repeated slowly.

"Yes, Master."

Adi caught Yoda's eye; Yoda glanced sideways at Mace; Mace squinted at Dooku, sitting silent across the chamber; Dooku raised one brow at Depa, who nodded to Even, who twitched his ears at Ki Adi. The Cerean exhaled slowly. "That is very strange, Padawan."

Nobody remarked upon his slip. They were far too enmeshed in the pitiable spectacle of a once promising initiate gone utterly insane.

Yoda fidgeted in shi seat and then pointed one clawed digit at the unfortunate focus of attention. "What say you, Obi-Wan? Do with you, what should we?"

At last, the young man seemed to have an unequivocal answer. "Master, I killed Yarriss Moll. And – and the others. There is Dark in me; I've allowed it to take root and dominate me. I know the consequence of such failure. I do not fear it." he raised his hands again, to touch the collar about his neck. "I would rather pay the penalty than live like this." A pleading look, one directed specially to Yoda, a mute entreaty of tiny youngling to beloved mentor. Without the Force to shield his thoughts, however, they rang out clearly for all present to hear.

_Let me die while I still stand in the Light._

Yoda harrumphed loudly. "Our own counsel we will keep, on who is to be punished."

Defeated, Obi-Wan bowed his head.

"You are dismissed," Mace intoned. "But you will understand our reasons for keeping you confined where your unpredictable actions cannot cause further harm."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, absorbing the sentence meekly. "Yes, my Masters."


	16. Chapter 16

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

"He _is _ dangerous," Mace protested. "A formidable swordsman, and made more so under Yan's tutelage. The Force is strong with him, even in his compromised state. He overpowered two full ranking Knights and evaded a Temple full of Jedi – and very nearly got out of Qui-Gon's grasp as well. With an only partially healed wound in his thigh. "

"Impressive it is," Yoda concurred.

"Worrisome," the Korun insisted. "I've made the only feasible decision for the safety of this Temple. And he himself agreed."

Adi sighed. "That is why I raise the objection. Surely someone steeped in Darkness would not be so _cooperative?"_

But the ancient Grand Master wearily shook his head. "Forgotten, we have, the lure of the Dark Side. Treachery is its way. Deceit. Trust appearances we must not, only truth."

"But that is what I intend, Master." Adi was not to be so easily pacified. "You heard him – he's _ill,_ his testimony is unreliable. Any man who genuinely believes he fought an avatar of his own dark impulses cannot be considered mentally sound. And should certainly not be _incarcerated_ in a dungeon without access to the Force."

Disgruntled, Mace looked to Yoda for guidance.

"Allay your fears on his behalf, I cannot," the old one grunted. "But agree I do, that seek the truth beyond his perspective, we must."

"Besides," Mace mused. "There is precedent for his experience. On occasion, the Trials of knighthood involve combat with a dark self… it is a traditional testing ground. One of the more perilous tests."

"That involves a deep trance-state," Adi protested. "You think Kenobi was … in the Force when he battled the so-called "Other?""

"I don't know, but there is something peculiar about that conflict." Mace steepled his fingers. "Just before we apprehended Kenobi, I felt a disturbance so great…" he hesitated, but continued at a signal from Yoda. "I thought it might be a vergence."

"Around person or place?"

"Perhaps a person. Certainly by the time we found Kenobi, it had dissipated. It was almost as though an evil presence fled before us."

"Before you," Adi teased, her generous lips curving in a sly smile.

Mace allowed himself a tiny snort of amusement at the implication that even the powers of darkness might flee before him.

"Meditate on this we will, together," Yoda determined.

"I also wish to have the tech guild restore Moll's shipboard comm circuits. Perhaps he tried to send a final transmission before he was attacked. It would be worth the effort if any information at all might be gleaned form them," Adi proposed.

"Authorize it, I shall," Yoda agreed.

"The matter of Moll's missing saber, the fate of the orbital blockers, and the Service Corps ship remain unclear," Mace remarked. "There are too many holes in this scenario. Something vital is missing from our knowledge."

Yoda rose and clacked about the emptied Council room, leaning heavily on his cane. "Foremost is this: what lies at root of young Obi-Wan's forgetfulness. Afflicted he is; Dark occludes his Light. Sense it we all do."

"But can he be blamed, entirely?" Mace proposed a radical theory. "What if Sifo-Dyas' meddling is at the root of this? We have yet to hear Ben To's considered opinion on the matter."

"Patience we must have."

"You mean Kenobi may have been coerced?" Adi clarified. "By means of Dark practices?"

But the Grand Master shook his craggy head. "Temptation. Invitation. Seduction and opportunity. Whisperings and torment: these may the Dark assault us with. But to act – to succumb? This on choice rests, always. Turned against his own will, is no Jedi."

Adi met Mace's eyes, hr solemn gaze full of unspoken discomfiture. "You are right, of course. Murder is murder; at some level, he must have chosen to listen, to allow this… other self he speaks of to dominate and eclipse his own will. And that is Darkness."

"Enough to merit expulsion form the Order," the Korun sighed, dropping his powerful hands to his lap. "Blast it. There's little hope for the boy."

"Hope, there always is," Yoda chuffed. "Where life is, there is the Force."

The ancient Jedi's authority was unimpeachable. The younger masters bowed to him, reverently, and adjourned their hasty meeting in favor of more direct action.

* * *

Ben To Li hurried through the Archives stacks, hastening toward the holocron vault where his assigned research partner waited upon him.

"Our contact for the mission was a Darshiki assassin by the name of Khar'Ton," Yan Dooku explained as they passed through into the restricted chamber. "He reports that Sifo-Dyas employed Dathomiri magic to reanimate dead bodies, and may have used the same art upon his captive."

Ben To twirled the end of his beard. "Illuminate me further."

The Sentinel lovingly extracted a tiny pyramidic object from a stasis storage unit. "Here," he discoursed, "Is the B'Tmothi holocron which I was able to recover from the Nightsisters of Dathomir immediately antecedent to our encounter with Sifo-Dyas. I had thought initially that he merely conveyed the location of this artifact to Mother Talzin… but I see now that I was a fool. Doubtless he would have thoroughly absorbed its doctrines and secrets before permitting it to fall into the hands of a rival. "

"And what does it contain?" the healer inquired, eyeing the pulsing artifact as though it were a flesh-eating parasite.

"Ah," Dooku's knifelike smile did not extend to his sharp grey eyes. "The Night Brothers were prudent. In this holocron are committed to posterity the most effective countermeasures to the Sisters' machinations – the cure, if you will, for any assault wrought by their magics."

"Convenient," Ben To snorted.

"The Sisters are not to be trusted," Dooku shrugged.

"Stars' end," the Temple's senior healer sighed. "You're going to suggest we open that thing and find a technique to reverse whatever perfidy's been wrought on Kenobi?"

"Darkness is best fought with its own weapons."

If Ben To Li harbored objections to this grim pronouncement, he – like the Brothers of yore – was far too prudent to voice it in present company.

* * *

Qui-Gon braced himself and advanced, flesh crawling as the Force was leached out of the world, absorbed insidiously into the black walls about him. A pause, in which to regain his sense of balance. The passage itself was hewn of thanatosine, ominous and threaded with sickly pale rivulets, some less noxious mineral binding the wicked Force-warping ore. The guards outside watched impassively, maintaining their distance, the unsympathetic surroundings and thankless task producing eddies of disquiet about them.

Little wonder sentry duty here was limited to a daily cycle at a time. And thank the Force the Temple seldom now had use for this nefarious prison level.

He reached the door and was admitted without a word. The massive door slid into its pocket behind him, closing him in an oppressive bubble of void. He breathed, centering himself by an act of will. _No_ Jedi should ebe subjected to such cruelty ; his heart rose up in revolt at it, in pity and resentment at once.

What had they _done?_

He remained leaning – unobtrusively, he hoped – against the closed door for as long as he could stand it. And there, in the dank embrace of this living nightmare, his vision in the Old One's cave lay fleshed out before him, starkly real, horribly concrete. Chained to the wall by one wrist and one ankle, curled in a despondent ball with his back to the door: Obi-Wan.

Long minutes passed. The chill dungeon remained excruciatingly _empty. _ Here, without the Force, they were disparate and isolated, minds bound tightly in their own confines, islands in a sea of suffocating nothingness, stars burning in a meaningless field of black.

There was no master and apprentice here, where they were reduced to merest humanity.

"Obi-Wan."

The young man rolled over, startled by the familiar voice. Qui-Gon had to remind himself that here, there was no _sensing_ a visitor's identity.

Obi-Wan's blood-shot eyes widened, sheerest need flaring in their depths for a single instant before a furious scowl overshadowed his face. He had grown older, too, the final edges of maturity now sculpted into his face, the last traces of anything close to innocence scoured form those alarmingly expressive eyes.

"I said I don't want to see you," he snipped.

How he had missed that insufferable, haughty tone. Qui-Gon inhaled, slowly, falling into masterly self-composure without effort. "You should know better than to think I would conform to your wishes in that regard."

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "You're right. You defy all expectation." A pregnant pause. "You even return from the dead, like that charlatan at the Felucian carnival show. Remember him? He impressed me with that trick…. When I was twelve years old."

"You were thirteen. And more generous in your estimation of sentient nature."

"You disabused me of my error in both respects, as I recall._"_

Qui-Gon winced, only now fully recollecting the razored irony that characterized his apprentice's wit. "I would rather be forgiven my own errors than correct any more of yours," he replied, gently.

The patient cadence of his own voice had never failed to infuriate the younger man; it did not disappoint now. Obi-Wan jerked upright, perched on the edge of his hard prison cot. "If you've come to insinuate yourself back into my affections, think again, _Master Jinn."_

Somehow, in the absence of the Light, this insult did not sting. Or perhaps that was because he technically no longer bore the title to start with. "I'm on probation as much as you are," he mildly remonstrated. "You may as well call me Qui-Gon."

"I may as well call you an oath-breaking bastard!…or is it an all-holy mystic, now? Far be it from me to withhold due reverence to a sainted prodigy of compassion such as yourself, my _master."_

The acidic pain in these words could not be siphoned off into the Force; it lay in corrosive puddles between them, forbidding further egress.

"I taught you better than to use such unsophisticated means to instigate a fight," the tall man chided, as placidly as ever.

"No?" Obi-Wan stood, shaking head to foot, choking on emotions for which there was no release, from which there was no respite. "No," he decided, after a rhetorical pause. "You prefer to walk away, don't you?" He scoffed, bitterly. "Take your own advice then. Walk away." He flopped back upon the cot, turning a determined shoulder to his visitor.

"Obi-Wan-"

"The door is to your kriffing left."

Enough was enough. Qui-Gon crossed the bare space in two strides and grasped the insolent by one shoulder. His hand was batted away with savage vehemence. "Since when have you lost your nerve, Qui-Gon Jinn? You left me to find my own way – have the decency to let me finish walking it without your interference!"

"Look at me."

Obi-Wan whipped around, snarling. "I am _not_ your padawan!"

"But you are my friend, whether you consider the relationship mutual or not. And I have no intention of letting you wallow in childish misery. Can we not speak as equals?"

Deadly calm masked over the younger man's face, a sign of explosive fury tightly leashed. "I was never your equal. And now I am far beneath the lowliest Hutt-spawned worm crawling on any star-forsaken world in this galaxy. I am _Dark,_ the vilest obscenity in existence, the _worst, most damnable _ kind of associate you could possibly claim to possess. Do you understand? You must be _a filthy pervert_ to crave my company or claim my friendship. Get out."

Qui-Gon took a step backward, appalled. "I had hoped," he began, and then trailed off. Who was he to appeal to his own thwarted dreams of reconciliation? "I was supremely grateful to the Force for allowing me to see you again, Padawan."

"I am not your padawan," Obi-Wan rasped, turning his face to the wall again.

"You will always be my padawan."

The young Jedi's rigid posture tightened further, howling need smothered and crushed in the iron fist of his will.

"Even when you choose to behave like a sulking _brat," _ Qui-Gon added, quietly, willing the once-cherished nickname to carry even a tithe of its original meaning to his interlocutor's unwilling ears.

There was no answer, but Obi-Wan's shoulders soundlessly heaved..

Qui-Gon honored the trust they had once shared, and silently took his leave.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

"So." Ben To Li folded his arms across his chest, planting himself squarely for a prolonged conflict. "You're on a hunger strike now, is that it?"

Obi-Wan raised weary eyes. "Don't waste your breath, Master. But I'll have tea, if somebody brings it."

"Oh, tea." A snort.

"It soothes all ills but the greatest, remember?" The young Jedi shifted, making room on his narrow cot. "Do sit down. I've plenty of room for guests."

The healer accepted the flippant invitation, sighing as he eased his aching joints onto the hard plank. "I've discovered something that might help with this." He tapped his companion's chest. "I think your malady stems form Dathomiri magic. And I've found a sort of… remedy."

One of Obi-Wan's brows rose. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

Ben To spread his hands apart. "It would require a … certain degree of violation. Of your mind, I mean."

"Like a mind probe?"

"Yes. In the extreme degree. I won't lie to you."

The young man scowled at the dull conjunction of floor and wall, jaw working pensively. "Why bother? What's done is done."

The healer raised one hand and smoothed his beard's carefully trimmed point. "You would prefer to be free of … say, voices in your head?"

Obi-Wan turned to him, startled. "You heard –"

"I'm observant," Ben To replied. "And one of you is quite enough trouble for the galaxy to deal with."

This earned a faint grin. "I doubt there will even be one of me much longer," Obi-Wan gently rebuffed him. "But thank you for your concern. I'm reconciled to … the future. You needn't bother further."

With another throaty exhalation, the aging Jedi found his feet. He waved the cell door open. "I could simply barge in here and start an intravenous line if you don't eat."

"I'll pull the blasted thing out."

Ben To withdrew with a muffled imprecation, sealing him in oppressive solitude again.

* * *

"This is fabulous," Cerasi murmured, lost in contemplation of the overhead illuminators. "I've never seen anything like it. There is… was… no garden of any kind on Melida-Daan, in my memory. The wars had destroyed all agriculture well before I was born – only the unpopulated hemisphere produced enough plants to maintain an oxygen cycle for the atmosphere, and we imported everything else. After the interdiction.. gods. I don't even want to think about that anymore. Do you think that's odd?"

Her young companion traced fingers over a drooping yarbanna frond. "No. We have a saying: dwell not on the past."

An amused snort. "You Jedi have and aphorism for everything. Obi-Wan used to – " she stopped, tucking hands into pockets. "Sorry."

Siri kept walking, using a calming breath to bring her pulse under control again. "No… tell me. I can't see him at all… I'd at least appreciate a story."

They changed paths, heading for the waterfall at the central summit. "Well. He used to make up adages for the children. Wise sayings. Teo would throw a fit over a bruise or a scrape and he would say _weep not for your knee; grieve instead for the floor that suffered its wrath. _Or Zilla would refuse to eat what was put in front of her and he would say _we become that which we fear; do you wish to become a repulsive vegetable, youngling?"_

A laugh welled up from Siri's depths, a sparkling fluttermoth of joy that escaped her lips and faded into the arboretum's subtle music, the fragrance of life in the air. She sobered immediately. "That sounds like him."

Cerasi smiled, too, and they continued on in amicable silence, the roaring of the artificial falls drowning out the softer chiming of rivulet and brook. They sat upon the stone-strewn banks, mist settling in their hair.

"Nield has asked me to marry him," the older woman stated, flatly.

"Oh – I -"

Cerasi shrugged. "We have a history. And this new life… people have expectations. We'll have to conform. And without it, the Republic might not recognize our custodial rights over the children."

Siri frowned. Surely there were legal allowances in cases of –

"Besides," Cerasi continued. "I love the stupid barve."

The young Jedi twisted her fingers together, studying the saber calluses that marred their soft surfaces, the hairline scars here and there from combat training, the place where she had broken two knuckles during a diplomatic mission. gone sour. In her world, _love_ was never an acceptable justification for any action or decision. Compassion, certainly; but personal, _special _ attachment…?

"It can't be any worse than not being married to him for twenty years. I'll take a risk on him. He hasn't any ideals left." A heartsore sigh. "But maybe I don't either. All you're left with when your dreams die is commitment. Sheer damn stubbornness. Nield has that in spades."

Siri nodded. "I wish you both well," she said, supposing such felicitations to be expected.

Her companion laughed at the stiff formality. "You think I'm selling myself short, eh? Well." She idly tossed a loose pebble into the churning froth beneath the falls. "We can't all have gorgeous young Jedi warriors to warm our cold nights."

Siri reflected that the Young could all use some lessons on basic circumlocution. She stood, perfunctorily ending the conversation. "Let's keep going. I'll show you the rest."

* * *

_Have you ever wondered about death?_

"What kind of question is that?"

_You needn't be hostile; for someone so given to brooding, you miss the rather obvious, don't you think?_

"I can give one reason death would be a welcome change."

_But that's my point. They always taught us that to perish in body is to return to the Force. But what about the polluted ones, the Lost? Do they return as well- are they cleansed by death, or are they rejected of the Light?_

That was a chilling thought. He stood, stretching so far as the restricting chains would permit. Why the Other insisted on holding philosophical salons at all hours of day and night he would never be able to fathom; suffice it to say he was weary of the endless morose discursive cycles. But even so, he could not resist the bait.

"Your argument is fallacious. There is no them after death – no individual of whom to say, Fallen or just, compassionate or wicked."

_That thought drove your old master off the edge of sanity, didn't it? I wonder if the Whills satisfied his curiosity._

"Why do you care? He's not part of our life anymore."

_Well_, the Other drawled, with exquisite malicious accuracy, _it would be nice to know your sacrifice wasn't entirely in vain. You haven't anything to show for Melida-Daan. A dozen people who will all die anyway, in a handful of decades. The planet is destroyed, Sifo Dyas is damned and forgotten, your own life is forfeit. Shouldn't there be something to make it all worthwhile? Some fragment of hope?_

Sometimes the Other was almost interesting company; but on occasions such as these he was merciless tormentor. The walls of the cell seemed to close in, constricting and enclosing. The Force, so long absent, seemed a child's dream, a fairytale to soothe away the harsh revelations of reality, a wily deception worked upon the gullible and needy.

He leaned his forehead against one smooth wall, half expecting the green mist to engulf him… but even as it snaked at the margins of vision, coiled in the dark periphery of his senses, it was absorbed and reduced to nil, another aspect of that bogey-filled fantasy called the Force, that wretched pack of…

"No!" He trembled, wrenching at the evil collar about his neck, pounding one hand against the unyielding walls. He needed out. Out, now, from this hellish tomb, before he lost his mind truly and for good.

The door slid open behind him.

"Master!" he gasped, before rational thought could intervene. Melting relief flooded in his bowels. Qui-Gon. Freedom. The Light, the –

And then he remembered himself. A wry smile. Very nice. He was on his knees, shaking like a pathetic youngling, practically in blasted hysterics. What a spectacle of sauve Jedi dignity he must present to his former mentor. An apprentice in whom to take unbecoming pride. "You've come at an awkward time," he grumbled.

The tall man warily crossed the small space and set down a laden tray upon the inset bunk, folding himself onto the floor opposite, as though this were simply the local cultural custom.

Qui-Gon was a consummate diplomat, after all.

"We've suffered worse indignities together," he pointed out. "It might be more politic to never mention the matter again."

Obi-Wan pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to smile. He was not a viol to be played so glibly.

"Ben To said you wanted tea," the older man continued , undeterred by his companion's silence. When he received no answer, he poured two steaming bowls and gravely served them up.

Force. It was good. Hot and smooth and fragrant of bitter leaf and sweet blossom, earth and spice. Life. Hope. Warmth. Compassion.

"I was hoping you had forgiven me for not being dead," Qui-Gon ventured when the bowls were half empty. He refilled them carefully.

The tea settled like balm in the young Jedi's aching belly. "Well," he shrugged, slyly. "I was far more piqued at you for being dead in the first place." The smile weaseled past his vigilant guard and quirked one corner of his mouth upward.

Qui-Gon's eyes sparkled. They drank, mutually fearful of breaking the spell.

"I … I may have spoken without thought. When we last met," Obi-Wan offered, tentatively. Would an apology destroy that miraculously restored, gossamer-fine connection?

The Jedi master's brows rose, delicately. "After so many years, I am inured to it."

Perhaps not. The slow, hesitant exchange of banter, like the easing of weight onto an injured limb, was a pleasant pain, the ache of slow recovery. Forgiveness precipitated like drifting virgin snow, and was not absorbed by the thanatosine, holding itself a thing immune, above and below such principles and powers.

They breathed, falling into a long forgotten harmony, the emptiness about them magnifying the silence of accord.

"Does that mean I may stay?" Qui-Gon inquired, politely.

"So long as you haven't brought a lesson with you." Obi-Wan swallowed another mouthful, letting the flavor linger on the back of his tongue. Complex. Strong. Lasting.

"Ah, well." The tall man's eyes slid sideways. "You cannot teach an old akk new tricks."

"The young akks aren't always panting with enthusiasm for it, either, Master."

The honorific slipped out, unbidden, and took up a seat between them, joining the party without invitation. Qui-Gon watched his friend carefully, wise enough not to make reference to the newcomer. A smile lit his eyes, and then pulled at his lips, and ultimately found release as a deep throated chuckle. "I've missed you, brat.."

The tea was an excellent smokescreen for emotive backlash. They drank in silence, not meeting the other's eyes.

"However, that does not excuse you from the lesson."

"I thought you were on probation?"

"I serve the Force, Obi-Wan, not the Council."

The young Jedi obliged him with an eloquent groan. "You're completely unreformed."

"Do not distract me from the lesson – that trick only works on the weak minded." Qui-Gon countered. He waited a few seconds relishing the moment, the strange consolation of almost ritual observance, the kata of word and nuances.

He reached across the space between them and lifted Obi-Wan's empty cup in one hand. "The lesson is here. This is a beautiful piece of artisanry –"

"I've heard this one before," Obi-Wan interrupted, mildly vexed. "The cup is beautiful. But it is chipped and cracked, the design worn off, the glaze somewhat dulled –"

"The chips on this one are your own doing, I might remind you," the tall man replied, tartly.

"-but it remains intact, and is considered by some to be more beautiful because of the minute flaws. Thus also the mistakes and sufferings we experience in our lives only enhance the overall beauty and wisdom of the spirit."

:"That is not the lesson," Qui-Gon snorted.

A beat. "I'm glad," Obi-Wan quipped back. "I thought you were getting trite in your senectitude."

The Jedi Master narrowed his eyes. "We may both be under censure, but surely a difference of rank still applies?"

"There are no degrees in dishonor. I do not think so."

"Hm." Qui-Gon tenaciously returned to the proposed lesson. "Your attention wanders, young one. This cup is resilient. Jedi are also resilient. They can withstand many a blow and many a scar before they break." He dropped the cup to the floor, where it shattered into pieces. "But they are not invulnerable. Indeed," –he scooped the tiny slivers into a small pile – "They can even be destroyed." His boot heel came down upon the tiny heap, grinding pitilessly until the cup was reduced to fine ceramic dust.

Obi-Wan looked from the crushed remains of the tea bowl to his former mentor's leonine face, blinking in astonishment. "And what is the lesson?"

"That is yours to tell me, Padawan."

They rose, side by side. Nothingness resounded about them, bled vitality from the very air. And yet, there was a kind of peace.

"Qui-Gon."

The tall man held out one hand in mute invitation, and was rewarded with a crushing embrace, one returned with equal vehemence. They stood a long while, encompassed by guttering void, the past ground to pale dust beneath their boots.

When the Jedi master finally departed, a strange peace still remained, and among the ruins of their former existence there glinted a small, rough-edged fragment of hope.


	18. Chapter 18

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Adi peered about the gleaming counters and databanks of the Temple's tech center, a thrumming citadel of circuitry and cybernetics buried deep in the refurbished north wing. If not for the obligatory winged flame laid in new marble tile upon the floor, she would have identified her surroundings as the bridge or engineering deck of a starfreighter.

"We're still working on your project, Master Gallia," Toorus M'Ndlevv informed her, brisk and perfunctory. "That transceiver was fried to bits."

"I am grateful for your efforts."

The head technician ran a hand over his knobbly skull. Behind him, his diligent entourage of assistants and interns fiddled with microtools, trotted like shepherding akks among the banks of satt-comm relays.

"We did piece together a partial transmission – one that didn't make it into relay."

"Master Moll's last message to the Council," Adi breathed, interest piqued. An intuitive thrill shivered down her spine. "Never mind the restoration. Concentrate your efforts on deciphering that last transmission."

M'Ndlevv blew out a noisy breath. "Easier said than done – photonic integration was lost, it's a mess –"

"And you're an _expert,"_ the Tholothian reminded him, the dangling tails of her headdress swinging softly as she leaned forward, mouth tightening into a vexed smile. "I have confidence in your ability."

"No pressure," the beleaguered tech manager grumbled.

Adi straightened and made him a gracious formal bow. "Contact me immediately when you've reintegrated that transmission. May the Force be with you."

She swept out with a lightened step, despite the thunderheads gathering in the Force. For good or for ill, knowledge was preferable to ignorance, truth to the obscure estimations of implication and doubt.

And her instincts told her that this would somehow, alarmingly, turn the tide.

* * *

The Temple Archives were spacious, a place amenable to those seeking quiet and privacy, a galaxy of stored and recorded wisdom in which the Order's separate luminaries might lose themselves in the vastness of tradition and insight.

Unfortunately, Yan Dooku and Qui-Gon Jinn found themselves in the same aisle at the same time.

The dark serendipity of this meeting was lost upon neither of them. Qui-Gon's mouth twisted in a wry half-smile; the Sentinel's brows twitched upward in black amusement.

"Well met," the Sentinel greeted his former pupil, faint irony curdling his words.

The tall man made him a short bow. "Indeed."

There seemed little more to say, this mutually laconic salutation having been delivered – but Dooku fell into amicable pace beside his one time padawan, eyes glinting. "You've spoken with Kenobi."

Qui-Gon cursed the man's eerie capacity to Sense the minutiae of his companions' doings, the grating invasion of his personal privacy. "Briefly."

They passed between the stately tiers of holo-books, bootsteps echoing on the tiled floor.

Resentment burbled up from some buried reservoir; Qui-Gon slowed his pace to a deliberate crawl. "Tell, me, Master. Did you leave him there to…. Teach a lesson?" A measured breath, release, release.

Dooku's lips curled. "You needn't project your own recollections onto the present." He smoothly replied. "You long ago disabused me of the notion that an apprentice can truly be taught anything he does not wish to learn."

The past's specter rose between them, dissipating slowly into the dull ache of seedling wisdom. Qui-Gon nodded. That much, at least, was true.

"The disastrous turn of affairs on the planet was, in the final accounting, his own choice. Kenobi is susceptible to fits of sentimentality. He nearly shipwrecked the mission at the outset, for the sake of freeing some dozen slaves; he later fell into Sifo-Dyas' clutches through lack of resolve. Had I not had a contingency plan in place, he would have been destroyed. And in the final reckoning, he failed again to complete his task. If he embraced utter folly and defied me for the sake of his pathetic lifeforms, I think we need not look far for the inspiration."

The tall man clenched his jaw. "Compassion is never a _mistake,"_ he asserted.

"Perhaps not." Dooku was in a generous mood. "But there are many forms of it. From a certain point of view, delivering a swift death to one deserving of it _is_ an act of compassion – and yet the boy lacked the nerve."

They halted, faced off across the shadowed space between two rows. "Lacked nerve? You were training him to be a _killer,"_ Qui-Gon fumed.

"A blade of Light. He was – I thought- the most promising in his generation."

"You bent him out of his rightful path and forged him into a shape contrary to his nature. How do you call that _teaching?"_

The Sentinel regarded him with disdain "Really, Qui-Gon," he drawled. "You are not one to lecture me on the obligations of mentorship. I tried to salvage what you so callously abandoned, for the sake of …what was it? Ah, yes. _Compassion._ If I have failed, it is merely the consummation of your own folly."

The senior Jedi turned on his heel and flowed away down the central aisle, black cloak rippling in derision, a black flame licking at piled kindling.

Qui-Gon was left marooned upon the shores of his own outrage, with nothing but bitter truth for company.

* * *

The door hissed open to admit Ben To Li, accompanied by two staunch Temple guards, in the traditional long robes and imposing masks.

Obi-Wan stood, heart pounding, the specter of a formal execution swimming before his eyes. Surely he would be given _some _ notice, some graced reprieve in which to prepare himself?

But the healer quickly laid his apprehension to rest. "I've managed to knock it into their obstreperous heads that this is unhealthy," he informed the young Jedi. "You're allowed two hours of fresh air."

"I –"

"Don't waste your time on pretty words, boy. Let's go."

The guards unshackled him, energy pikes at the ready. Obi-Wan touched the accursed collar about his neck, but Ben To shook his head mournfully.

"That stays on, I'm afraid. You're considered a serious risk. But let's get you out into some sunlight, at the very least."

Lightheaded from his self-imposed fast, the prisoner stumbled in the wake of his stern and reticent escort, up from the foundation level and through several connecting halls and corridors, to the south-side ground level exit, the one adjacent to a sequestered meditation garden lying quiet within high pale walls. It was not much of a retreat – and a very small, secure one, he cynically noted – but at this moment the central basin with its scant centimeters-deep reflecting pool, the columns of shapely aoli trees and the raked gravel pathway wending between them seemed a paradise.

The guards posted themselves at the door.

"I could jump that wall," Obi-Wan pointed out sourly.

"Not now, you couldn't," Ben To reminded him. "Take advantage. I know you can't meditate, but do your best. I'll return to fetch you. Perhaps we can bend the limits of the Council's munificence and extend your reprieve a bit with a trip to the Halls. I'd like to look at that cut on your chest again."

Obi-Wan made a face. "I'd prefer the dungeon."

"Truly?" Ben To feigned wounded feelings.

"…No." A rueful sigh.

The healer nodded sharply at him and left, barking some ill-tempered injunction at the silent sentries as he departed back into the Temple's cool interior. Energy pikes held rigidly at their sides, they bowed curtly and stood aside to let him pass.

Obi-Wan swiftly lost himself among the aoli, seeking out a nook screened from his guards' view. When they did not immediately hunt him down, he concluded that he was indeed to be left alone, afforded this short span of privacy. Sunlight warmed the stone bench at the path's bend, and he stretched out upon it, reveling in the feel of hot stone against his aching back. The scent of the trees filled his nostrils, tangy and sweet; the subtle caress of air against his cheek, soft and affectionate; the dancing spots of color and afterimages behind his closed eyes, an entrancing spectacle. The Force… remained out of reach, but here in the small grotto, surrounded by Life, he felt that is was _near…_ just behind that bush or beneath his feet, just over the wall…

He exhaled, slowly, overwrought nerves melting into the tapestry of sensation, animal nature rejoicing in the simple pleasure of heat and sound and scent. He moaned and let his limbs slacken, sprawled indolently upon the bench, the warmth of Coruscant's prim sun beating down upon his face.

It was joined by another warmth, and the soft pressure of two hands pressed over his eyes.

"Shh," a delicious voice whispered. "This is a clandestine mission."

His breath stopped. "Siri!" He froze in place, remembering the sentries, the terms of his release, the –

"Stop _worrying,"_ Siri advised, keeping her hands clamped over his eyes. "I'm practicing my advanced shielding skills. If _you_ hold still and don't make a fuss, I might not get caught and censured by the Council."

Supremely unfair terms of compromise. "How did you-?"

"Over the wall, you silly gundark." One hand shifted in place, keeping him effectively blindfolded, while the other traveled slowly to his neck, fingering the band of cold metal there. "What's this piece of bantha _carpu?"_

He released a bitter breath; Siri tensed.

"Oh, Force, _ben'ke…._I'm sorry."

Her weight settled firmly on his middle, squeezing breath away.

"You're no spring chick, Tachi," he grunted, squirming in place.

"Shh! It's a wonder I enjoy your company. Such a lack of chivalry." She poked him lightly in the shoulder. "But I'll let you off the hook today, since it's such a special occasion."

He had entirely lost count of days, well before his return to the Temple, time smearing into nightmarish homogeneity during his tenure on Melida-Daan. He could not for the life of him call to mind the nearest Republic standard calendar holiday, nor the most proximate Temple solemnity. Of course, it would help had he any inkling of the proper _date._

Siri laughed at him, silently. Her free hand played among the loose strands of his unbound braid, and then looped the long hair about itself one, two, three times, a firm anchorline by which to reel him in. "It's your life-day, chosski."

It was? "Oh."

"Let's see… twenty standard. You're a boring old man, Kenobi, and your choice of celebration shows it." She leaned in close, withdrawing her hand from his face. He blinked up at her, squinting in the sun. A blinding corona of solar rays and dizzying sky reeled behind her head, a vast halo of blue and gold. He closed his eyes against the painful radiance.

"Siri, don't you think you ought not to –"

"Shhh. I brought you a present." Something smooth and pleasantly round, firm but soft and cool to the touch was pressed into his hand. He caught the scent immediately, and smiled.

"A muja? I shall cherish it always." He took a leisurely bite, the succulent juice ambrosial upon his tongue. He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the smile widening into an impish grin. "…Or perhaps I shall only cherish it for the next few minutes."

"Shouldn't you offer to _share?"_ Siri breathed.

Oh, ho ho. "What's mine is yours, Padawan Tachi."

She took him at his word. The muja dropped, forgotten, to the graveled path beneath the bench; its sweet flavor mingled with others less rarefied, though also redolent of lost paradise, of forbidden fruit. Sun and sky blended with the glory of white-gold hair, with the empyrean splendor of paired thranctills soaring upon the limitless wind.

Siri started, jerking away. "Blast it," she hissed. She was instantly on her feet, and he left clutching at empty space where her solid and lithe form had been a moment before.

"Goodbye," she mouthed, springing fluidly over the wall in a single Force-assisted bound. And that was that.

He sat, and retrieved the fallen muja, flicking stray granules off its mottled skin as the suspicious guards peered round the stand of aoli at him. He offered no explanation for the bruised fruit in his hand, and they demanded none, subsiding into vigilant stances a handful of paces away. Obi-Wan polished off the muja in a few ravenous bites, realizing only now how utterly famished he was, and decided that he would let Ben To Li feed him as recompense for the proposed visit to the med-ward.

It was a special occasion, after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

The Light was omnipresent Source, a radiant center from which the galaxy spun out in endless blossoming luminance, a slow-unfurling flower of life, of wonder and growth and ordered complexity, a fountain springing from the invisible roots of novelty, the utterly unexpected, the ravishing creative outpouring of being.

It was difficult to attend to the margins of this ecstasy – but they were there, nonetheless, the Darkness skulking at the periphery, Void and rebellion, discord and chaos and spite. Shadows convened here, gnashing and muttering, coiling and reforming themselves into twisted mockeries of the light, into music without harmony, power without beauty.

He forced himself to behold their machinations, the vertiginous hollow of their presence opening within his own awareness, until the pit yawned wide about him, threatening to swallow his light and snuff it utterly. Anchored fast, he gave no heed to the clamoring threat. Instead he peered, as though into the heart of a smoldering black sun, and beheld the loom of fate.

Upon its warp, the threads of a mantle were slowly woven, a dark shroud embroidered with vast sigils, obscene and hateful symbols, an incantation harnessing the fire of revenge into jagged, serpentine forms, red on black, black on red. The harbinging angels of the Dark chanted over it, harsh syllables erupting from rotten throats, oozing like pus over swollen lips, broken teeth.

_Yoodah. Rah-tah-mah. Matah. Korah._

The words were unfamiliar, hung with tattered pennants of malice. Behind the loom a figure waited, en emperor ready to be crowned, to be cloaked in the priceless garment of retribution, of domination. His face was in shadow, his body wreathed in smoke. Before him knelt a servant, one whose flesh was painted even as the mantle: red upon black, black upon red, his carcass a tortured canvas of some dark artistry, his head encircled by a coronet of spikes.

This one, and the one behind, loomed before him, laughing, mocking his impotence - and then dissolved, whipped away into shadows again as Light poured in, dawn breaking over the bleak horizon of possibility. Future melted into solid present, premonition into breath and blood and throbbing pulse. The Force released its servant.

Mace Windu cleansed himself with a long exhalation and opened his eyes, the haunting echoes of his vision fading into the Temple's incensed hush.

* * *

"I still don't see why we have to be _here,"_ Obi-Wan groused.

Ben To Li frightened away a curious gawker with one burning look and closed the door. "Because I can't accomplish a blasted thing in that hell-forsaken torture chamber they've got you buried in." He rubbed disinfectant barrier into his hands. "Let's have a look, now."

_Well. We're fraternizing with the enemy, aren't we?_

Obi-Wan was in no mood to pay credence to the Other. He pushed the interloper out of his mind and allowed the healer to examine the still unhealed scarline marring him from navel to collarbone.

"This is an unprecedented mess," Ben To murmured, "But I think Master Dooku is right. we've not yet deployed all our resources."

_That doesn't sound good._

_Yes, it does. I want to finish this. On my terms._

_Your terms? _The inner voice scoffed, incredulous. _You've not had control of this situation since the outset. And now at the end you suffer delusions of grandeur. You can live lie a Jedi, you can die like a Jedi, but you can't fool me. There's no way to fall into Darkness like a Jedi._

He shuddered, the warmth of the garden overshadowed by remembrance of his true situation, of the sword hanging over his head, the irreparable scars carved into the Force by _his _hands, stained in the blood of the just and innocent.

_You don't have the right to do anything on your own terms; in fact –_

"With whom are we conversing?" Ben To bluntly inquired. "I've not been introduced."

Obi-Wan scowled. "I'm broken," he explained, tersely. "Let's just say the parts don't mesh well together."

"You know why that is?" the healer replied, unperturbed by the revelation, or else feigning detachment. "It's a sign of mental resilience, from a certain point of view. You've dissociated from the nastier parts of your personality – which, I may add, are abundant – as a stress response to this _foul poison_ working its wonders. I would posit that when the Dathomiri nonsense is uprooted, you'll find yourself in your own right mind again. More's the pity."

_Don't listen to him. He'll seduce you into something regrettable._

"Oh, Force forbid." He rolled his eyes. As though avoiding the _regrettable_ were his speciality.

Ben To regarded him quizzically. "Think about it. Master Dooku has the skill."

And that was a better argument against the notion than any the Other might have marshaled in its own defense. The young Jedi stilled where he lay, the thought of allowing the ruthless Sentinel unconditional access to his innermost soul a dread-inspiring thought. He chased the fleet serpentine flicker of unease about his mind for a full minute, and finally cornered it in a dark corner of childhood memory.

He _feared_ repeating that experience.

"Ah," the healer sighed. "Of course."

Blast it. Without shields, without the Force, he was transparent as the reflecting pool in the meditation garden, an open holobook.

"I would participate as well," Ben To added. "If it's any consolation to you."

And to his utter surprise, he found that it was. The realization made him blink, and then flush. "Master Li," he started, tentatively, the weight of seventeen _years_ worth of apology rendering his quicksilver wit sluggish, unequal to the task. "I …"

BenTo merely grasped his shoulder, a tiny smile playing about his bright, dark eyes. "You needn't say it. I've known all along, you impertinent akk pup."

He had? "I… " Deep breath. "Well then."

"Good. Glad that's clear between us. Now, let's get some food into your system. Those blighters won't let us delay here forever. They're as fanatically devoted to their duty as you are to yours."

* * *

"When, Master? You cannot keep him in such torment for much longer."

Yoda huffed and wriggled atop his meditation cushion. "Speak not to me of can and cannot, Qui-Gon."

The tall man choked back his protest. Obedience. Patience.

"Deliberate tomorrow the Council will. Decided his fate will be soon."

There was another question he barely dared utter. But cowardice was not the Jedi way. "Master… how bad.. how severe will the consequences be?"

Yoda grumbled then, cantankerously rumpling his nose and wagging his ears. The luminous eyes closed as the old master peered into the future's mutable depths. "Murder, committed has been, Qui-Gon. Killing in cold blood. Mutilation of bodies. Evil is this – or else madness. Dark, Master Windu and Master Gallia felt upon the planet. Great Darkness. Dark about young Obi-Wan clings." A throaty sigh. "If Lost he is, then death the kindest fate would be."

"But if he is … insane? We surely –"

"Kept here, he could be. Or formally expelled. Trial in Republic Courts, predictable outcome would have: life imprisonment. Difficult it would be to contain one so strong in the Force. An ugly choice."

Qui-Gon exhaled bitterly. "He is ill, damaged; have you no _compassion?"_

But the outburst earned him only cold censure. "Against his will, to Darkness no Jedi is turned. Submit, surrender, he did – in deepest heart – if these atrocities he committed. Cling not to false hope, Qui-Gon."

The words slipped beneath his ribs, a pitiless shiv's thrust. Pain unleashed his tongue. "What do you know of his _deepest heart?"_

"Only what permit us to find, he will. Master Dooku: skill to root out this affliction he might possess. If willing Obi-Wan is, then truth we shall seek. And judgment pass."

"A mind probe? In his condition?" It was abject cruelty. And yet he had no doubt that Obi-Wan, in the last resort, would consent.

Yoda chuffed and settled into meditation posture, dismissing his visitor with a curt wave. "Pander to your anxieties, I will not. Your own balance must you find, Qui-Gon Jinn; your trial also is this."

* * *

In the end, Ben To had accompanied him back to his private corner of hell, and levied such a magniloquent rant upon the sentries that at last, thoroughly brow-beaten, they consented to forego the formality of chaining the prisoner to the wall. He had left the padawan with self-heating thermal blanket, a belly full of tasteless but densely nutritious gruel, and a strong dose of tranquilizer.

"You'll thank me later," he had assured his patient. "And I'm raising the Temple roof unless they bring this farce to an end soon." Whereupon he had exited in a huff of indignation and pale healer's robes, casting a look of utter aspersion upon both sentries and the thanatosine enclosure in general.

Thus, when Qui-Gon Jinn entered the oppressive cell an hour subsequently, it was to the quiet spectacle of a lethargic Obi-Wan huddled on one end of the hard bunk, drifting not unpleasantly in and out of sleep.

He took up a seat beside his mildly stupefied companion. "I wished to honor the occasion," he said. "Though it would appear Ben To has preempted me. If I did not know better, I would accuse him of plying you with celebratory libations."

The young Jedi frowned muzzily over this. "I don't quite…"

"We have an anniversary to mark," the tall man reminded him. "I did not forget."

Obi-Wan offered him a groggy half-smile. "I've had better life days." A pause. Then, dead-pan, "Before I met you, of course."

The black walls pounced upon their shared mirth, consumed it and spat out the bones. Melancholy descended. Obi-Wan slid in and out of chemically induced torpor; Qui-Gon recalled Yoda's chilling words.

He reached out and separated the loose strands of hair that had once been the young man's braid. "I wonder." He smoothed the thin lock between strong fingers. "Would you allow me to plait this for you?"

Obi-Wan scooted back against the cold wall, receding deeper into the blanket's folds. "What would it mean?" he said, staring at the blank granite opposite. "It's nearly the end."

"It would mean… my pledge to ease your path in whatever way I can, these last few steps. Obi-Wan… I have wronged you greatly. There is no means by which I can make restitution for the last two years. But if you will let me stand beside you now, where I should have been all this time… I would be honored."

The offer was gravely weighed, set in the scales of forgiveness and judged. Qui-Gon waited, understanding that he deserved no reprieve.

But beside him was a spirit of unparalleled generosity. Obi-Wan nodded. "Yes."

So he took pains to bind the long weaving correctly, strand by strand, the textured knot evolving beneath his fingers into a braid, a tight lacing of destiny. Teacher, student, the Force, until they reached the end where the sun-bleached tips unraveled into the golden disarray of the Living Force, where the Force taught the master, the master bowed humbly before the student, and the student made ready to embrace the Force alone.

He dropped his handiwork into place, bereft of markers or ties, and exhaled, the unshed tears flowing with the Force out into the void, where they were annihilated. He touched Obi-Wan's cheek, and watched the young Jedi's eyelids flutter closed as he gave himself over to the inevitable, and then took his quiet leave – wondering as he ascended again to the realm of light and life above, how it was that _he_ had been given the gift on this day.


	20. Chapter 20

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Yarriss Moll's fragmented image stuttered and faded into the Council chamber's darkened sanctuary for the third time that morning. The slain Iktotchi's voice seemed to hang in the air, every syllable a suspended, portentous hailstone.

Mace waved a hand, deactivating the ceiling mounted holo projector and lifting the curved window blinds. "I think we've heard enough. We are all indebted to Master Gallia." He inclined his head to her. "Without your intuition, this message might never have been recovered."

Across the circle, the beautiful Tholothian's face was grave. "I only regret that my actions have resulted in such a dreadful revelation," she replied, gravity deepening her already mellifluous voice. "These are Dark times indeed."

"Against the Dark, a struggle has there always been," Yoda huffed. "Fight the Order has, for millenia, against its power. Fight we shall yet."

The assembled Masters nodded and murmured their assent; what other recourse was there but surrender? The guardians of peace in the galaxy were not permitted to relax their vigilance, to beg furlough from harsh duty.

Even when it brought strife to their very doors, beneath their very roof.

"In light of this new testimony, I think we are all in agreement regarding the matter of young Kenobi," Ki Adi Mundi interjected. "Action must be taken, and swiftly, to conclude this matter."

"Yes," Yoda grunted. "Too long already have we delayed. Unanimous are we, in our resolve?"

A grave repetition of the votes that had already once been recorded. Yoda's countenance remained inscrutably solemn. "Then so be it. Speak with him, I will. Master Dooku, your help we will require in making final verification."

The Sentinel's aristocratic face was paler than his wont, but he assented soberly. "All that I am able to do, shall be done."

Mace stirred in his seat. "Then it is decided."

* * *

"Master Yoda?"

The ancient one hobbled into the cell, snuffling discontentedly, one green eye slatted contemptuously at the dark walls. "Hm, Hm," he grunted as he labored forward. "Ache, my joints do. No – no, youngling, do not kneel. Sit, sit, Hhhmph."

Obi-Wan complied, sinking onto the edge of the cot. His heart hammered beneath his ribs, beating out his certainty. "The Council has reached a decision."

But the Grand Master shook his head, white hair wisping about his peaked ears. "Spoken to you has Master Li about my request?"

His stomach flipped. "Yes."

The ancient Jedi's stick traced a complicated glyph upon the flagstones. "Do this, you will, if truth you love, Obi-Wan."

Deep breath. "I am willing to face the Council now, Master. I do not see what need there is for … anything else." He sighed, clasping his trembling hands between his knees. Without the Force, without his anchor, he was adrift on the treacherous sea of emotion.

"See, you do not. But trust me, do you, Obi-Wan?"

He nodded, then tucked his chin down. The ancient master was going to lay the command upon him, whether he would or no. He closed his eyes.

"Fear what, do you? Pain? Truth?"

A difficult question. "Master, I've waited so long. I am ready. Can we not just –"

"No!" The stick slammed against hard stone, a censorious rap. "Do this you must."

He squeezed his eyes shut, then, teeth gritted. Oh Force. Why, why on top of everything else, must this now be demanded of him? "Please, Master."

Yoda's gimlet eyes slitted dangerously. "Child you are not. Plead not with me."

He dropped to his knees then, knowing that there would be no quarter. "If I must."

"Hmmm." A clawed hand reached up and rested on his bowed head. "Courage, young one. Send for you, we will in three hours. Prepare yourself."

* * *

When Qui-Gon came, Obi-Wan was lying in the center of the floor, gaze trained on the bare ceiling overhead, focus obviously turned inward.

The tall man cocked his head to the side and joined his young counterpart upon the cold flagstones, bending a knee and pillowing his head upon one arm.

"Master," Obi-Wan whispered after a long silence.

Qui-Gon moved his free hand to cover the younger man's. The skin was cold beneath his touch. "You are preoccupied."

"That voice… the one in my head.. it won't shut up. It follows me around, asking questions I cannot answer and making smart replies to everything I say. I can't control it and I can't banish it." Obi-Wan released a huffing breath of frustration.

"Ah… I was not aware you had an inner padawan."

The young Jedi's mouth popped open in protest, then snapped shut again. He frowned upward, glaring at the ceiling. "That was not nice, Master."

"I never took an oath of niceness."

"That explains much," Obi-Wan muttered darkly.

A stretch of pensive minutes.

"Do you remember, after Telos – after the _Monument_ and Guerra and everything… do you remember me telling you that I would Turn? That I was Dark?"

The tall man remembered well. He recalled lying much as they were now, upon the 'fresher floor in his quarters, a twelve year old Obi-Wan exhausted from retching, himself determined to break through the boy's guilt and insecurity to _reach _ him, to nurture that kindling flame he had seen within. He would not hear the self-accusation then, dismissing it as childish hysteria.

"Yes," he sighed.

"Well," Obi-Wan intoned, because he _had _to, because the temptation was too strong to resist, "I was right. I told you so."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, a wry smile briefly flitting over his face. "Ah… tell me. Does your inner voice lord his superior insight over you, as well?"

"Oh yes."

"Well, then. You will readily sympathize with me when I tell you this assertion holds little weight with me."

A derisive snort, almost blackly humorous.

"Besides." The older man changed tactics. "I would rather enjoy what piece of you I have present now, in the Light."

"Qui-Gon."

He waited for the question to form itself, yearning for the relative comfort of a meditation cushion. The floor ground uncomfortably into his spine and shoulder blades.

"You haven't told me about your quest… about the Shaman. Did you find him? Did you – did you find your answers?"

A long breath. "Someday. Someday I will tell you the whole story."

"We don't have a great deal of someday left," Obi-Wan reminded him, bleakly. "Is there a condensed version?"

"It's right here. In the present moment."

They lay there side by side, divorced from the Light, from the fabric of their existence, plumbing the very abysm of loneliness.

"Did you meditate on the lesson of the cup?" No sooner had he uttered the words than he regretted his thoughtless choice of phrases. There was no meditation here, no communion at all with what insight the Force might bring.

But Obi-Wan, it would seem, had a secret storehouse of his own. "I did. Just now, Before you came."

"And…?"

The younger man gathered his thoughts. One hand came up, lazily accompanying his explication with a few simple gestures. "The purpose of a cup is to hold something else within itself. A cup would have no function, and therefore no form, without emptiness. So, from a certain point of view, the most essential – the most inward- nature of a cup _is _ emptiness. The ceramic is simply a vessel cast about this empty core."

"Very good."

"The cup can be cracked, dented, chipped, rubbed thin. Dirtied. But the inner emptiness resides, and so the purpose. You cannot ruin the _nature _ of a cup by marring its accidental form. Even in the end – when the cup is crushed to dust, and no longer exists… even then, the emptiness cannot be destroyed. In some sense, the cup has merely lost its limitations. The empty space inside it becomes part of a much greater space. Only its… its body is destroyed."

Qui-Gon waited. "A Jedi is an empty space, a vessel of the Force," he murmured. "His true nature, too, is impossible to destroy."

"We are luminous beings, not this gross matter."

"Indeed. And, perhaps, ultimately, there is no death. Not in the true sense."

Obi-Wan was silent, the brooding frown still stamped upon his strongly cut features. "They're going to rip my mind apart," he stated flatly. "I agreed to submit."

"I know." The floor was damnably hard, cutting into the angles of bone and bruising the soft places where training had yet to restore his muscle tone. The walls and stretch of stone above seemed to fall inward perpetually, a continuously suffocating prison. "I know."

"I can't feel the Force. Master Yoda said to prepare… but I can't feel _anything."_

Qui-Gon turned his face to his companion then. "I think you are well prepared on your own. Don't center on your anxieties."

"Master? Will you make me a promise?"

"Anything. I owe you two years' worth, and more."

"If… if I ask you to help me, will you do it?"

A surprising request; open-ended and precise at once. Obi-Wan was too careful with his words to have crafted it in a slovenly fashion, and for this reason its vagueness unsettled him.

But he owed the man this, and more. "Yes."

"What I ask for, and not what _you_ think is best for me?"

Ah. The crux of the matter, the hinge upon which fate's wheel turned. But he had also lost the right to such authority. "You are not my padawan, in that sense," he admitted, throat aching with denial. "I lay no claim to such a prerogative."

Obi-Wan was satisfied. "So you will."

"You have my word."

He knew that he had somehow condemned himself in the same breath, but they were both past the point of caring, and far past the point of no return.

* * *

When the guards returned to fetch the prisoner, Ben To Li and Yoda accompanied them. Qui-Gon respectfully yielded his place to the Grand Master.

"Come, youngling," the ancient master addressed the young Jedi. "Time it is. Remember, must be what is forgotten, and unveiled that which is hidden."

"I'm ready," Obi-Wan answered, rising stiffly to his feet. The pike bearing escorts fell int place beside him, though there was little need of such precautions when Yoda himself was present in the room. Ben To Li took the captive's arm and led the way out, Qui-Gon trailing behind the grim procession as they traversed the outside corridor and ascended the stairwell into the Temple edifice proper, the cloud of misery dissipating as they left the thanatosine granite behind. Light and peace flooded back to their senses, and all of them breathed an audible sigh of relief – except of course the unfortunate one bound and collared in their midst.

They hesitated in the empty chamber just below the main plaza stairwell.

"Here," the healer ordered. "He's going to need a moment."

Yoda waved the armed escorts aside, and Ben To approached the young prisoner. "Sit down here, there you are I'm taking this off." He reached for the collar.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard and closed his eyes; the metallic band unlatched and was tossed aside with a shameless repugnance by the healer; Qui-Gon waited apprehensively as the Force thundered into the void, a cataract of Light and fullness spilling over some invisible dam into barren lands below.

A gasp, a spasm, and then a soft moan. Ben To pushed the young mans' head down between his knees, crouching close beside him. Yoda observed with pursed mouth and limpid eyes, Qui-Gon clutched at his saber's hilt.

"Breathe with it, breathe… yes…. that's it – draw it in, don't resist." Ben To brushed fingers over his young friend's temples. "Good, good, better… there. Breathe. Now look at me."

"Long have you been absent, young one," Yoda chuffed. "Glad I am."

"Easy now," the healer advised, easing Obi-Wan back to his feet. "Walk steady."

Qui-Gon Jinn felt a swell of pride – of admiration – as the young Jedi stood proud, shoulders back and chin high, the influx of Light all but visible in his bearing ,in the color slowly returning to his face, in his coruscating aura. He reminded himself that Obi-Wan had not touched the Force without taint of Darkness in nearly a year – and marveled at the pure joy written on his former student's face, a relief that superceded for a blessed moment even the looming shadow if things to come.

They closed ranks again and proceeded on their way, through the hushed halls of the Temple and upward to the southern spire, where the cold beauty of truth awaited, enthroned high above the world's clamor, yet below the passionless stars.


	21. Chapter 21

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

The south tower turbolift carried them to the summit and disgorged the silent company in to the antechamber, where Councilor Adi Gallia and her padawan waited outside the lift doors The Tholothian met Master Yoda's eyes briefly as they passed, and nodded to Ben To Li. Her azure gaze slid over the guards with cool abstraction, and flitted by Qui-Gon to rest upon Obi-Wan, her lips curving in the tiniest of bittersweet smiles before she inclined her head to Siri and disappeared into the Council chamber opposite.

Siri stepped demurely into the lift carriage, left hand discreetly brushing against the prisoner's as they exchanged places, their fingers barely touching.

The doors slid closed, sealing the six newcomers in the quiet antechamber. Master Yoda grunted and passed into the Council room beyond, stumping inelegantly upon his cane, his shoulders hunched under the weight of centuries. The guards took up posts by the interior door; Qui-Gon and Ben To settled to either side of Obi-Wan upon the inset bench, shoulder to shoulder, a pair of seasoned buttresses upholding the soaring wall of some shell-shocked newer edifice.

The young Jedi uncurled his fingers, eyes widening at the parting gift pressed into his hand by Siri as they had passed. He heard Qui-Gon's soft noise of recognition, too: upon his upturned palm sat a polished rock, ebony depths threaded with delicate crimson veins. The Force pulsed softly through the mineral's depths, warming its smooth surface.

"My river stone," he murmured, wrapping his fingers over the precious object, his eyes glossing a little as he glanced back up at the expressionless lift doors. Qui-Gon's hand closed about his, a firm pressure securing his grip about the beloved life-day gift of many years ago.

Master Yoda was not absent long before the soft chime sounded, summoning him inside the Council room proper. He stood, Ben To at his elbow, and made for the door as though in a trance, the Light girding itself on all sides, a vanguard of some impalpable army marching into pitched conflict.

The guards – and Qui-Gon- remained behind. He crossed over the threshold alone.

And there, against a backdrop of darkened sky, Coruscant's traffic streaming by in endless colored panoply, the entire Council awaited him.

_Behold – the twelve most arrogant beings in the galaxy, _ the Other sneered.

He held his gaze on Master Yoda, garbed in his grotty robe, aged and mischievous, compassionate to the smallest crechelings and held in awe by the most revered sages, a living refutation of this groundless calumny.

_Pride sees its own reflection in others._

He crossed the inlaid floor to the very center, where there was laid a thin palette such as those filling the initiate dormitories. Beside it waited Master Windu and Master Dooku, hands folded together beneath the voluminous drape of their dark cloaks.

_Master Seva's wisdom won't help you now._

_And yours will? _

Ben To's hand upon his back brought him to attention; somebody had addressed him.

"Forgive me, my masters," he mumbled. "My mind was wandering."

_They're going to eviscerate you. There won't be a mind left to wander when this is finished._

Panic rose, and then ebbed, flowing away into the Force. He was far, far too experienced for that now. His hand tightened around the rock in his hand, its warmth intensifying to a radiant heat, just tolerable to hold. _Then so be it. This is the end of my path._

And he no sooner had thought the words than their truth split his inner realm with sudden lightning, stark white luminance catsing past and present into ruthless chiaroscuro, weird clarity. He had reached the end, the terminus of his journey, here in this chamber where – in some ways – it had begun with a simple oath of obedience.

The rock burned his skin but he clutched it, the awful clarity of his realization smudged atteh edges by a rising green mist, by shadow rolling sinuous in its wake. It crawled at the margins of the circular room, snaked between the councilor's seats, grasped at him with strong hands –

-no, that was Dooku and Master Windu, easing him down upon his back, upon the thin mat – they were speaking to him but he couldn't hear above the pandemonium of rushing green fog and howling darkness and the cacophonous thunder of revelation, of white armies descending in battle array –

-someone was whimpering, and Dooku's mind solidified amid the maelstrom, a palpable shadow wrenching down his tenuous shields, taking possession –

-the Council room dissolved into a sea, into a bloody field of combat, into agony. Dooku's presence was a knife's edge, thrusting deep into the never-healed scar, digging deep, deep, so deep that he was sundered in two, flayed open and disemboweled. Green and black oozed form his deepest viscera, parasitic, possessing. The Sentinel seized them, thrust deep into their roots, tore them up like weeds from a overgrown field, ripped them from their moorings, ripped him apart, his very bowels and heart and lungs flung wide to the four winds-

-there was screaming, the guttural, animal ululations of a creature in death's pitiless throes –

- and then the agony passed, a retreating tide hissing over bleached sand, and there were hands upon him – many now, gentler, kinder, some cradling and others stroking, one pair mending, mending, knitting and smoothing over, making whole, crooning almost singing, hushing, gentling, and now calling, calling calling his name…

He opened his eyes, and found a circle of other eyes peering at him. Dark and bright: Ben To. Dark and deep: Mace Windu. Grey and cool: Dooku. Green and gold, liquid with wisdom: Yoda. A murmuring in the Force. A murmuring in the chamber. The circle withdrew a space, and he was pulled upright, onto his knees. A heavy cloak was wrapped about his shoulders. He breathed, hands going of their own accord to the terrible wound…

But it was not there. Only a faint, barely discernible line where once a 'saber had carved the Makashi mark of dishonor upon his flesh. He blinked; the room was lit only by the pale nimbuses of wall sconces above the windows, the faint echo of the city's splendor in the darkened windows. The Other… was gone. The green mist – gone. The oppressive presence within him for so long, time out of mind, gone. He was hollowed and scoured, his soul raw, the scraped interior of a festival gourd.

His head hurt. Badly. He closed his eyes and breathed, hollow and empty, empty like crushed cup. Empty and chipped and broken, here at the end of his path.

Somebody was speaking to him, but the sound filled his cup and overflowed, leaving no trace. His head hurt. The rock in his hand burned, slowly, dwindling to an ember.

"Bring Qui-Gon in here," Mace Windu's voice commanded. There were footfalls, the rustle of cloaks, the swish of cloth, the hiss of hydraulic doors. More footfalls. He breathed, in time with his splitting head. Just a little further.

Hesitant footfalls near the door, quickening to swift strides. Another presence, welcome. Qui-Gon. A hand on his shoulder, slipping past the softly unraveling braid.

"What has happened?" Qui-Gon's sonorous voice demanded.

"Peace," Yoda grunted. "Hear our judgment you will. Your padawan this man was; upon you rested the burden of guidance. The title Master you bore in this Order, Qui-Gon Jinn. If bear it again you would , then stand fast you will and submit to this Council's decree concerning his fate."

A restless shifting behind him. Obi-Wan's heart thudded. So close. The rock warmed again, liquid heat spreading out from its center, suffusing his emptiness, his hollow cup. His head hurt less.

Qui-Gon must have bowed in acquiescence; the surreal proceedings flowed onward about him , demanding nothing of him - only that he float, an empty coracle upon the flooding tide. It carried all things softly toward the last horizon. He was content. His head hurt less.

"Master Dooku. Have you succeeded entirely in your task?"

"It is accomplished. The Dathomiri poison has been expelled and neutralized. There is no lingering trace of it, nor its effects."

Yoda's gravelly tones fell like sharp pebbles in his tranquil pool, the ripples spinning him idly this way, that, as he floated upon emptiness, a hollow cup upon a greater sea, a smaller vessel inside a larger one, overflowing with light. The horizon approached. The end of the path. He breathed himself into peace, into serenity.

There is no death.

"And seen have we, what was done upon Melida-Daan?"

Dooku's voice was collected, academic. He too floated, empty. Compassion's squalls and waves did not disturb the tranquility of his progress. He was perfect. Empty.

"Indeed," the Senitnel smoothly replied. "That which we witnessed in the Force here was that which Kenobi could not recall. Those times were shrouded within the invading dark, and were exposed by its dissolution. I think we have at last seen the truth."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, initiate of this Order, former padawan to Master Qui-Gon Jinn, former padawan to Master Yan Dooku."

He looked up at the tall Korun, up into the blinding breaking dawn over that last horizon. The invisible sun of truth flared molten, striating rays like knives, like severing blades, journey's end, path's last turning, the burning consummation of all that had come before. Dimly, he realized he had been directly addressed.

Mace's voice rolled out over the assembly as though over vast space, endless waves. The Light scintillated about him, summoning. Welcoming. Prommising fulfillment, when the cup was finally crushed, promising a fullness to annihilate the aching void, a homecoming at his path's end. He waited, empty, willing.

"This Council has witnessed your actions," the Councilor rumbled, solemn and passionless. "On the planet Melida- Daan, albeit in the thrall of a perverse art, you did in your inmost heart listen to the seductions and lies, the pomp and deception of the Dark, succumbing and choosing willingly to be used as instrument to its perfidy, murdering Jedi Master Yarriss Moll in hatred, and slaying fifteen innocents, desecrating their corpses and taking pleasure therein."

He could feel Qui-Gon's heart shatter into dust much as the cup had been ground beneath the tall man's heels only a day ago. Silence seemed to fill the entire world, bring the galaxy to a slow, whirling halt, starstuff skirling about its far flung edges as he breathed out, and out.

"To say, what have you?" Yoda demanded, voice terrible.

The rock in his hand scorched his fingers, the Force pulsing like hot blood through it, like a raging star's eternal furnace. The Light rose like a consuming sun, triumphant, gorgeous, obliterating, promising the extinction of darkness, promising balance, the utter end.

"My masters," he said. The words slipped hoarsely from a throat parched by screaming. "I – I ask for the right of _sai mu."_

Mace's brows rose in genuine shock. "The _cut of self?_" A wild rippling about the Council's periphery. Somewhere behind, Qui-Gon's silent howl of sorrow whispered over the Force's unruffled surface, a wind upon fathomless pools of light. "That custom has not been used in centuries. How do you even know of it?"

His sense of the absurd did not fail him, even here. "With respect, my master… I _read."_

Yoda's delight warmed the already radiant Force. Even Mace Windu's stren ebony features softened in bitter amusement. "This is your right. The Council will not deny it you. And who is to act on your behalf?"

The end had come. Obi-Wan turned, to meet Qui-Gon's eyes, heart stopping at the two silver trails traced down the tall Jedi's cheeks, the welling horror in the depths of his gaze.

"Master. You promised me."

Qui-Gon dropped to one knee, reaching for his face. "Obi-Wan. You cannot ask this of me. I… cannot do it."

"You gave me your word. I want it to be you."

"This is not the Jedi way."

"It is the Force that acts through us, not you or I. I claim my right to accept its judgment."

The Council remained utterly silent, watching, waiting.

"Master. Qui-Gon. You _must. _You started me on this path; now help me finish it. You swore an _oath_ to me. Keep it now."

And with this last appeal, he triumphed. The tall man rose, slowly, to his feet, the Force writhing with his dread, his sorrow. Obi-Wan inhaled, exhaled, pulled the cloak off his shoulders to pool at his knees. The Light swelled, intolerable, about him.

The end of his path.

A shuddering sigh as Qui-Gon drew in his own centering breath. Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, placing his hands before him, crossed one over the other, the river stone burning steadily beneath. He inclined his head, bowing to the Light, to destiny, to all that commanded his allegiance and obedience. Cool air prickled on his nape, thus exposed.

Qui-Gon's saber snapped and hissed from its hilt, a dangerous thrumming now sounding in the plenum, a note of resonating finality. The blade rose, steadied by a shaking hand. Now. Let it be now.

The room held its collective breath.

And Qui-Gon swung.


	22. Chapter 22

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

The pulsing emerald saber's edge fell, searing the very air, the blade of Light descending-

-and halted as though slamming into an invisible wall a scant centimeter from Obi-Wan's neck.

"Stop." Yoda's voice rasped with ageless authority.

Qui-Gon stared, dumbstruck. Obi-Wan's head came up, slowly, eyes wide with confusion, with childlike incomprehension. His chest rose and fell. A droplet of perspiration trickled down his colorless face.

A flick of the ancient Jedi's claw sent the plasma blade collapsing back into its hilt in a snap of green light. "Stand down, Qui-Gon. Done well, you have."

The tall man reeled backward a pace, trembling hand replacing the weapon at his belt. Obi-Wan straightened, mutely seeking explanation form each and every one of the Councilors in his field of vision. Their faces remained inscrutable.

"Master of this Order, you are in truth," Yoda addressed Qui-Gon. "Duty and compassion, have you at last rectified. Your broken oath you have made faithful effort to mend. Relinquish that most precious to your heart, you are able. Take up your rightful place, servant of the Light."

A deep bow. Qui-Gon said nothing, his presence a stunned blank.

Obi-Wan found his voice. "But… Master…. I -"

"Peace, young one." The ancient master stumped forward upon his stick, until he stood directly before the accused man. "Dark, you are not. Turned, you have not."

The young Jedi blinked, unresponding. "I…" He felt suddenly faint.

"Vo, vo, give de boy a moment," Even Piell's voice protested somewhere in the background.

"Revealed by Master Dooku's skill, the truth has been," Yoda continued. "Your actions on Melida-Daan we have seen, all that was obscured by Dathomiri magic within your mind. In all your time there, while in grasp of darkness, nothing did you but flee from the innocent to protect them. Kill Master Moll you did not. Kill the Service Corps crew you did not."

"But…"

Mace spoke, in a surprisingly gentle tone. "You did demonstrate some impressive zombie slaying techniques. Disturbing even." He paused, holding Obi-Wan's gaze. "But I think we can allow you some leeway there."

The inversion of former certitudes, like a reversal of gravity, sent the complex architecture of his eloquence tumbling into disarray. "I didn't kill anyone?… I didn't .. submit?"

The Korun shook his head, gravely. "Not once did you succumb to the seductions and impulses planted within you by Sifo-Dyas' treachery. You blacked out, perhaps, under the stress of resistance. You ran, irrationally, and wreaked havoc on the undead that attacked you in such a state. But murder? No."

"So… I'm not Dark?"

Yoda's wrinkled face was beaming at him, as though he were an amusing crecheling just now attaining to some clever insight.

Qui-Gon's voice formed itself within his mind, his ironic mirth sparking along a long dormant bond. _I told you so._

Obi-Wan's gentle laugh transformed abruptly into soft tears, and to his astonishment there was no shame in it. Even Mace Windu looked on without reprimand.

Yoda's clawed hand stroked his head, pushing the thick fall of chestnut back, smoothing his forehead. "Sorry I am, that so long suffer you did, youngling. Know not for certain, did we, until purged the evil was."

He nodded, still half benumbed by the Force's absolution , by the impossible exoneration. A thought drifted into his blank mind, one textured with dark foreboding. "But… but then who killed Master Moll?"

The Councilors exchanged grave looks. Mace Windu exhaled slowly. "Who indeed? It was not you who destroyed the orbital blockers, nor shot down the Service Corps ship and slew its crew members, nor dueled Yarriss Moll, took his 'saber as trophy and sabotaged his ship. Not was it _yourself _whom you fought on Melida-Daan. That wound you took to the leg was dealt by another."

It fell into place. "I thought it was the Other… there really was another Dark being there. Wandering the streets. Looking for me."

Mace's boldly chiseled features hardened. "Indeed. Master Moll tried to send a last transmission before he was killed. We will show it to you now."

Qui-Gon and Ben To helped him to his feet, picking up the cloak and throwing it back upon his shoulders. He leaned heavily upon their mutual support, limbs gelatinous beneath him, muscles shaking with delayed shock. They withdrew a pace, allowing the projection to occupy the central focus.

Yarriss Moll's static-riddled effigy appeared, blinking in and out of existence as the damaged recording stuttered along. His curved cranial horns were a pair of calligraphic strokes about his stern face, his pale eyes shadowed by a deep scowl.

"…. A Dark presence here… ship located nearby. I shall…. Investigate… bears lightsaber and … like nothing I have felt before. I fear it is…. Sith."

The last word hung in the air like a venomous insect, hovering menacingly with stinger poised to strike.

Yoda waved the image away. "Powerful allies, or else powerful enemies, Sifo-Dyas possessed. An emissary sent to gather information – or perhaps to destroy witnesses and evidence, there was. Encounter him Master Moll did, and perished by his blade. Encounter him, also did you."

"And did not fall," Mace added.

Obi-Wan recalled the face of that demonic mirror-self – no, not his self at all, something other and vile, repulsive and horrifically real : the painted skin, the hellish eyes, the crown of spikes, the red saber-blades. "Was he – was it truly a , a –"

"Know we do not, for certain." Yoda gently replied. "Upon this, the Council will meditate. Fret not over it now, Obi-Wan."

His weariness threatened to blot out the edges of vision. He managed a wavering bow, and straightened, strong hands beneath either elbow.

"Can ve get on vit it?" Even Piell grumbled. The Lannik master's long ears waggled vexedly. "Enough talk."

Obi-Wan cast him a look of purest gratitude; Piell's one good eye winked at him slyly.

"You are right," Mace responded, his mild glower passing over his Lannik colleague like harmless wind over sculpted rock. "There is one more resolution this Council must act upon. Are we still in unanimity?" His gaze traveled round the quiet chamber, confirming that it was indeed so. Yoda snuffled noisily, settling upon his cane with a guttural grunt of satisfaction.

The Korun stepped forward, and laid both hands upon Obi-Wan's shoulders.

The young man looked up, noticing for the first time that Master Windu was cloakless, while the fall of deepest brown cloth about his own shoulders fell to the floor, a full hands-width of hemline pooling at his feet.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," the head Councilor declared, in a tone measured and gravely cadenced, the deep gong of high ritual. "Initiate of this Order, former padawan of Master Qui-Gon Jinn, former padawan of Yan Dooku."

A pause, in which the Korun's fathomless dark eyes betrayed the barest flicker of emotion.

"Inasmuch as you have without aid of allies or other resources, by the sole power of your skill and dedication, protected and aided the innocents of Melida-Daan for nine months in conditions of unspeakable deprivation and danger; inasmuch as you have laid aside all personal ambition, faced the loss of your own life, fought against overwhelming – even impossible odds – without losing heart; inasmuch as you have endured both pain and distress, torment both physical and emotional while suffering the torment of Dathomiri magic upon your person, and while deprived of the Force itself here in your rightful home; inasmuch as you have born accusation and imprisonment, interrogation and capture without complaint and in humility; inasmuch as you resisted the lure of Darkness for nine months, the lies and seductions of evil finding no anchor or root in your spirit, despite the depredations wrought upon your mind thereby; inasmuch as you have faced death willingly, without fear or bitterness, and in the courageous dignity befitting a Jedi-"

Mace took a deep breath. The Council remained suspended in anticipation of his next pronouncement, of the Force's decree.

"-inasmuch as these ordeals respectively, and collectively, represent a trial of skill, a trial of courage , a trial of insight, a trial of the flesh, and above all a trial of spirit, this Council must need recognize and ratify that which the Force itself has deemed acceptable. You have passed the Trials of Knighthood, and are to be welcomed into the ranks of this Order, with open arms, as our brother in the Light."

He leaned forward, bestowing the formal kiss of peace to either side of the young man's face, and then stepped back.

Though it was pitchest night without, dawn rose resplendent within the apex of the spire, Light rejoicing at the completion of its long labors.

"Speak, Obi-Wan," Yoda gently cajoled, a thread of humor rasping in his aged voice.

There were ritual words, he knew; but he had not studied beforehand – and only the barest gist of their meaning could he summon to mind. "I am not worthy," he breathed.

But the Force itself dismissed the protestation as the charming foible of a beloved child. Light rose, and rose, until it burned in his veins, shone triumphant from its ubiquitous center, demanded an obedience more complete, more fulfilling, more promising than any he had yet tasted. "Yes," he said, quietly, the enormity of this moment threatening to rend spirit from matter, self from identity.

Qui-Gon and Ben To brought him back to the present, to the concrete, their firm hold upon him mooring him back in the Council chamber, in the words spoken now by Master Yoda.

"…dawn, two days hence," the ancient one said. "Rest now, you should, Obi-Wan."

He recollected himself far enough to make a hasty bow, supported by his loyal allies to either side. Joy, and some amusement, chimed in the Force as the Council dismissed him with quiet solemnity.

* * *

Somehow they made it into the lift, Obi-Wan propped between the healer and a now madly grinning Qui-Gon.

"What – what was that about dawn two days from now?" the young Jedi asked, stymied.

The Jedi master's beaming smile widened further, were that possible. "Your Knighting ceremony. You must keep vigil the night previous. He wished to give you time to recover a bit first."

"Oh." His _Knighting?_ The lift seemed to lurch and spin, reprehensibly unruly.

"We need to get the vanquishing hero to bed, and quickly," Ben To grumbled. "Of all the ill considered practices… a lesser man would have died of apoplectic shock."

"I don't have anywhere to stay," Obi-Wan said, the simple pragmatic difficulty just now occurring to him. He had not been resident in Temple in over a year; he was nobody's padawan; the thanatosine cell he would never suffer to set foot in again; the healer's domain was strictly out of the question. After all, he reasoned, he had _prerogatives _now. The thought made him grin, too.

"He's giddy," Ben To remarked. "The pair of you look like a pair of drunken Wookiees."

"You can stay in the lower residential wing, near me," the tall man offered. "The neighbors can be a bit… boisterous… but at this time of night I think we can sneak in safely."

"Fine." He had no energy left to raise objection, nor to suggest another solution. In truth, the lift's decking plates were looking marvelously enticing.

They reached the base of the tower, and meandered their way down to Qui-Gon's current accommodations, unimpeded by late-night wanderers or the Young's fractious offspring. The bare room next to Qui-Gon's chosen haunt was empty; they summarily claimed it on Obi-Wan's behalf. He collapsed gratefully onto the thin palette, uncaring that his boots were removed without his permission, nor issuing protest when blankets were heaped atop him and an irresistible sleep suggestion laid upon his blearing, deliriously happy, utterly exhausted mind.

Ben To withdrew with a few murmured words to the Jedi master.

"Qui-Gon…" Obi-Wan reached a hand sideways, seeking his former master's presence.

"Did you not hear our revered healer's injunction?" the tall man queried, drawing near. "You must rest."

He was already half-way into the Force, only tenuously connected to time and place by a straining thread of gratitude. "Your promise," he slurred, "….Thank you."

A hand rested against his cheek. "Oh,…my brat. Never, never ask that of me again."

He smiled, or tried to, his last scrap of conscious thought a dry observation that it was to be hoped they never, never found themselves in the same situation again.


	23. Chapter 23

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

He woke, to the Force's bright abyss.

Afraid the trance, or spell, or miraculous illusion would shatter and dispel were he to open his eyes, he merely laid there, suffused and sated, just breathing. As they had learned in the crèche, so many many years ago. In and out, flow with it, _be_ with it, let it penetrate and surround you, shape your imagination, guide your steps, bolster your strength. In and out. Peace. Serenity. Knowledge.

The Other offered no trenchant comment, the walls of his haven were permeable by Light, there was no apocalyptic army of the undead besieging the ramparts without. Peace. And above all, he was not Dark, not fallen, not turned, not Lost. In and out, slowly, with reverence. The mat beneath his back was solid yet yielding, his cocoon of blankets and an insubstantial pillow warm, his chest and belly dully aching, but only with the fading pang of remembered trauma. He sighed, deeply. Out. Release. Rejoice.

Eventually he fell back asleep, faintly smiling.

* * *

When the hour was well past meridian, Qui-Gon Jinn's vaunted Jedi patience came to an end. He barged, unannounced, into the small monastic cell next to his own, lifting his brows at the bundle of coverlets and limbs and chestnut hair that still lay curled indolently upon the room's only significant furnishing.

"Don't even _think_ about it," the lump addressed him, its perfectly civil enunciation somewhat marred by hoarseness of long sleep. "I am, after all, no longer a padawan."

A fair point, the tall man had to admit, and one with a specially fragile nexus of meaning between them. He laid aside the temptation to forcibly roust his companion from his bed and resorted to the only means left him. "Forgive me. I did not expect to find a Knight of the Order so slothfully engaged.."

Obi-Wan rolled over, shamelessly luxuriating. "But you see, I am not technically a Knight, either." A long, nekk-like yawn, ending in a languid sprawl. "A paradox. I will leave you to unravel its meaning for yourself."

The older man hooked both thumbs through his belt, regarding the insolent spectacle so tauntingly stretched out before him. He was not entirely sure the scamp did not still have _much_ to learn. But that thought brought with it a pang of loss, for with this new joy there was concomitant sorrow. He would no longer bear the mantle of _master_ in this friendship, no longer have the security of protective authority such relationship entailed.

The younger Jedi propped both hands behind his head. "If you wish to see me perpendicular to the floor at any point today, you may start negotiating now, Master Jinn."

Had the Jedi master been less temperamentally inclined to stay focused in the present moment, he would have seen in this drawling proclamation a forbidding portent of things to come. Fortunately, he bypassed any speculation as to what extremity of insouciance a fully-ranking Obi-Wan might attain, and simply addressed the challenge head on.

"Food," he said, directly.

That had his companion rolling upright with a sheepish grin. "_Sola._ I yield."

Qui-Gon raised his brows. "So easily?"

"I _am_ famished. Beyond all mortal reckoning." The younger man stood, still graceful despite the rumpled blacks and chaotically disheveled hair. He glanced down at his own disgraceful appearance. "Though I suppose I should make myself presentable first."

The tall man waved him into the corridor. "This level has only communal 'freshers and sonics. But our fellow residents are, mercifully, absent for the day. They've gone to make last arrangements with the Service Corps."

Obi-Wan put two and two together and came up with significantly more than four. "The Young, you mean? They've signed onto the Corps? But- oh. Master Windu brought them to the Temple and bypassed the legalities?" A slow spreading grin. "He's growing sentimental with the passing decades."

"Wash your mouth out," Qui-Gon sternly admonished, keying open the facilities. "Master Windu is an impeccable bureaucrat and disciplinarian."

"I don't have a change of clothing," his companion groused, mouth twisting. "Blast it."

"I've left you clean things in the locker. And the grooming kit, as well." _Proper_ white Jedi tunics he had just this morning procured from the quartermaster, to be precise, and the hair and beard trimmers pointedly included in the latter amenities. But he let these subtle clues speak for themselves.

When Obi-Wan emerged a quarter-hour later, he was clean and neatly attired – though the extravagant mane had only been tied back, not diminished, and the offending scruff remained firmly in place. One brow arched upward, richly ironic. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know."

The tall man released a frustrated breath. "It does not suit you, Obi-Wan."

The subject of this address blithely sauntered down the corridor. "Vanity ill becomes a Jedi. Far be it from me to pander to the shallow whim of fashion." His pace quickened, either hurrying _toward_ the lift tube and therefore the nearest refectory, or else hastening _away_ from Qui-Gon and the retribution so richly merited by this retort.

"Brat," the older man growled, lengthening his own stride.

* * *

"When you said you were famished, Padawan-"

A sharp look brought the slip to his attention. Qui-Gon amended his statement. "When you said you were famished, my scurrilous young friend, I underestimated your sincerity." Two empty bowls and a likewise cleaned plate sat before them. Obi-Wan gulped down an immoderate serving of muja juice and set the cup aside.

"Believe me, I could graze upon the yarba bushes in the arboretum and count myself happy man. You've not experienced culinary doldrums until you've lived off stolen rations and dry goods for nine months." His expression waxed accusatory. "You look a bit gaunt yourself."

"That is another long story, one I shall defer to another day. We make a harrowing sight, I think." His eyes slid sideways to the cluster of younglings eating at a low table along the far wall, chubby legs dangling off their benches, several of their eager faces staring in fascination at the haggard diners across the hall.

A small boy made a face at Obi-Wan, who promptly returned the favor, much to the shrieking delight of the juvenile assembly.

"That's enough skullduggery, you lot!" a stentorian voice thundered, instantly silencing the unruly giggles. Troon Palo's enormous figure appeared from around a corner, his bright eyes sweeping the room in search of the instigator.

With a ripple of black fur and a wide grin revealing shocking purple gums and twin rows of jagged teeth, the hirsute clanmaster came lumbering across the refectory's main aisle, arms akimbo He loomed over the seated pair. "I should have known," he growled, leaning in to address the culprit directly. "Notoriety has gone to your head, Kenobi. Set a good example for my clan, or…" he lowered his voice to a rumbling undertone, "I'll set an example _with_ you."

The villain presented a façade of bland imperturbability. "I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours, Master Palo," he drawled, placidly pouring tea into two bowls.

Troon cuffed him lightly upside the head and helped himself to a seat, casting one admonitory glance over his left shoulder – a lightning-bolt strike that stilled the unruly Dragons into instant obedience. "I heard the news, you useless scalawag." A broad grin. "I always knew you'd come to a bad end, and look what you've turned into. One of these Jedi types." Troon's rich chuckle echoed off the rafters. "Come to me when you want a padawan. I'll hook you up with a right proper little monster, just what you deserve."

The very mention of his _own_ padawan caused Obi-Wan to choke on the hot tea. The clanmaster's helpful back-thumping proved less than efficacious.

"Well, duty calls," the gentle giant sighed, levering himself upward again and ambling off in the direction of his diminutive charges.

"Master," Obi-Wan gasped when he had recovered his breath – and Qui-Gon noticed the honorific's resurgence – "the Council cannot _order_ me to take a padawan, can they?"

"The Council would not be so wantonly cruel and unjust," the tall man reassured his stricken companion. "…to any youngling."

The corner of the younger man's mouth twitched, betraying a hit taken; but he was a accomplished duelist already, versed in Ataru, Makashi, and Jar'Kai – as well as not yet formalized zombie slaying techniques. The counterstrike was swift. "It's not unprecedented, " he argued. "They manipulated you into finding another."

"That was my own free choice," Qui-Gon objected. Then, startled," Where did _you_ ever hear that noxious rumor? Certainly not from _me."_

A sly smile, spreading to the eyes. The dimples peeked out from beneath the obscuring fringe. "I won't violate the confidentiality of my contacts."

"I see."

"Speaking of rumors," Obi-Wan continued in the same teasing vein, "Is it true that you prostrated yourself on the Temple's steps?"

Qui-Gon leaned back in his chair, casually. "Rather than answering that query, let me propose a … contest of sorts."

This had his audience's full attention.

"A sparring match. I am sure the dojo can provide us with some training sabers… since I am the only one presently endowed with a proper weapon."

Obi-Wan laughingly fumed at the slur. "For high stakes, or for the sake of inspiration?"

"A wager. I'll bet the answers to all your prurient inquires against, say… "- he gestured vaguely at the high pale ceiling –"the hair and beard."

"What?"

The tall man leaned forward, eyes dancing. "I lose, you grill me. You lose, I shear you."

Obi-Wan was not so rash as he had once been – or else his professed disdain for the dictates of vanity was not so stalwart as he claimed – for he took a moment to appraise his former mentor's physical condition, comparing it to his own upon some internal scale of probabilities. They were both underweight from months of malnourishment, and Obi-Wan sported a healing saber wound to his thigh and the aftereffects of his recent ordeal, as well. But he seemed to like what he saw, for –

"Fair odds. I've been fighting the living dead for ages now… I don't suppose a half-dead relic like yourself will prove a much greater challenge."

Qui-Gon determined to make it a very _close_ shave.

* * *

They shuffled home a few hours later, damp from the shower rooms and limping badly, having violated every dictate of prudence and instinct to achieve the desired end of all-out melee. Their progress was slow, but it eventually brought them back to Qui-Gon's tidy cell in the lower residential wing.

"Sit," he ordered. "I shall return shortly with the spoils of conquest."

Obi-Wan sank onto the low sleep-couch and massaged his aching thigh, mouth twisting ruefully. It had perhaps been a trifle presumptuous to suppose he could best Qui-Gon Jinn, even under such handicapping conditions. Though the indulgence in their once-favorite pastime had been an unsullied joy right up to the moment when the wily Jedi master had disarmed him with an unexpected _kick_ aimed at his sword-arm, a simple and piratical tactic he should have seen coming a parsec away.

He flexed his fingers and grimaced as the door hissed open again to admit the victor, armed with the tools of humiliation. "Now, young sir, repeat after me," Qui-Gon smirked. "_I still have much to learn_."

"Such a declaration was no part of our original contract," Obi-Wan snorted, crossing both arms over his chest.

The tall man hefted the trimmer in one hand. "Just how _very_ short do you want this to be?"

"I still have much to learn," his victim growled, settling into a prolonged scowl of disapprobation as Qui-Gon set about restoring right order to the galaxy.

* * *

Ben To Li feigned unrecognition. "Why, I don't believe we've been introduced before."

"If only that were so," Obi-Wan snipped, leading the way into the exam room. A newly-restored MD40 cowered in the corner.

"I'll handle this," the healer assured his quivering automated assistant. The droid withdrew with an alacrity suggesting a major programming pathway malfunction.

"It has a loose wire." The young Jedi decided.

"It has post tramautic stress disorder," Ben To chuffed. "You heartless brigand. Lie back here, I'll do the scans myself, since you've terrorized my staff."

"I haven't heard the Other at all today," Obi-Wan offered, helpfully. "He seems to be gone."

"Well, of course. That was simply your own mind playing tricks with you – a useful tidbit of knowledge: every psyche has its own inbuilt means of defense against complete breakdown. We learn much about ourselves by observing what that propensity might be. In your case, we now know that if you _ever do_ live to be a crazy old codger, you'll be talking to yourself all the time."

"For want of more stimulating company?"

"For want of _sanity,_ young one," the healer barked, rolling his eyes. "You've done something stupid on this leg already today. The salles?"

"I am an incurable reprobate. You've said it yourself."

Ben To made notes on a datapad. "I'm prescribing three weeks of intensive physical therapy. With Anoon "Iron Hand" Bondara. Keep talking and I'll make it six."

His patient subsided into a fulminating silence.

"Good. I'm glad we've cleared that up. Now: other than that, and your overall scrawniness, which I must say seems to be congenital –"

"Master Li!"

A wicked chuckle. "Other than those factors, you're ready to be unleashed upon this unsuspecting but richly deserving Order. May the Force be with us all."

"Thank you." A true diplomat could only make a dignified retreat in the face of such insults. He stood and bowed.

"By the way," Ben To added, twirling his beard with a contemplative abstraction. "I think the new look will find great favor among the ladies. Especially the ones you might meet _on clandestine missions."_

Definitely time for retreat. He raised sardonic brows and made for the door, totally clean shaven face flushing a vibrant pink. There was _something…._ something in the wily old healer's tone that hinted at a conspiracy of which he wanted no cognizance.

* * *

"Bi-Wan! Bi-Wan!" Zilla shrieked, throwing herself upon him bodily the moment he set foot in the corridor.

"You have a devoted fan," Qui-Gon remarked, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Song?" the child begged.

Obi-Wan hauled her up, wincing as she used his dangling braid for leverage.

"The Young are waiting for you – they've staged an impromptu gathering – a celebration. And I've convinced them to include you as a guest of honor."

A disgruntled frown. "Are they _singing?_"

"You are the worst curmudgeon in the Temple, Obi-Wan."

"Your hair growed backwards," Zilla observed, lower lip protruding in a pout.

"Imagine that, " he replied, dryly.

Qui-Gon slung an arm about his shoulders, and Zilla pulled mercilessly on his plait, and the strumming of taro and borine filled the hall, accompaniment to the Young's favorite sentimental anthem.

"I rather like it," the Jedi master asserted, daring his former apprentice to take disparaging exception to his statement as he shepherded them into the neighbors' familial circle, and the simple warmth of the humanity sheltered therein.

Tonight, he felt Young at heart.


	24. Chapter 24

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 24**

"You again?" Master Huyang sniffed, optic plates glimmering with surprise. "Don't tell me you've lost your 'saber. A Jedi's weapon is his life, you know -"

"Yes, Master, I know." Obi-Wan shouldered past the cybernetic threshold guardian and found an empty work-bench.

The ancient droid appeared over his shoulder, curiously observing the proceedings as he laid his _shoto_ blade upon the smooth countertop and set apart dismantling it.

"A difficulty with the calibration? The shorter hilt presents its own set of problems, naturally; there is little margin of error for placement of the focusing chamber and activation plates –"

"No, it works beautifully. I just don't need it anymore."

Master Huyang was affronted. "You've come here to _destroy_ a weapon? This , Padawan Kenobi, is a sanctuary of _creative_ energy, not an abbatoir."

Obi-Wan continued undoing the work of his own hands, until the 'saber's components lay neatly before him, disengaged and dissolved, no longer a unity. Amid the ruins lay a brilliant turquise Ilum crystal. Tahl's crystal. "There is no death, Master," he reminded the offended droid. "There is the Force." He lifted the peerless jewel from its place, and cradled it in his palm. "We are luminous beings, not this gross matter."

Huyang's expressionless face conveyed astonishment and a more than sneaking suspicion that his young interlocutor had slipped the moorings of sanity. "I shall appropriate the parts for junior padawans' use," he burbled, sweeping the discarded pieces into a bin.

Obi-Wan nodded, absently, already laying open the hilt of his _ken-ilum,_ the lightsaber proper, and dismantling the focusing chamber components. He set Tahl's crystal beside his own, a chord of sapphire tones. Simple to conceive; difficult to execute. He would not have dared before now, but…

"Have you lost your wits?" Huyang demanded. "My predecessor, Master Huyin, was blown to smithereens in an accident involving the rash –"

"Weep not for the past," his young companion advised him, closing his eyes and levitating the disparate pieces of his 'saber into the air, gently rotating, the two crystals poised in place within the singular heart of the blade, a duality seeking resolution, a paradox waiting upon unity.

Master Huyang withdrew to the workshop's far corner, anticipating disaster.

Obi-Wan sank deep in the Force, to the center where the crystals chimed pure and resonant tones, divergent paths running downhill to a greater road, rivulets cascading to the sea, a chorus blending into harmony. Purpose, compassion; justice, mercy; obedience, freedom; choice, destiny; love, renunciation; doing, knowing, tradition, wisdom; ending, beginning. And he brought them together, their balance minute, more minute than the balance of particles in an atom, more exacting than the line between vital breath and spirit, birth and death, being and becoming. The Force sang, the crystals sang, he sang within them both. And compacted the 'saber into a whole, into an instrument of Light, a pure vessel for a mended heart.

It was done. He lifted it from mid-air and opened his eyes, releasing the Force, breathing himself out of the trance.

The droid was still cringing by the far storage cabinets. "An irresponsible risk, all the same," he grumbled.

"Life itself is an _irresponsible risk,"_ Obi-Wan countered. "From a certain point of view." He flicked the activation switch; the blade sang true, the blue of sky and sea, thrumming deeper now, a faint dual overtone in its familiar sonorous _ommmmm, _the thrilling meditative mantra of the Jedi lightsaber. He smiled, and snapped the gorgeous sapphire blade back into its hilt, and clipped the weapon at his belt, where it belonged.

"May the Force be with you," was Master Huyang's pointed dismissal.

* * *

The reclusive west wing upper residential hall was cast in sepulture hush even at this mid-morning hour. Obi-Wan trod cautiously, feeling as ever like a youngling tiptoeing past some forbidden doorway, and presented himself to the furthest portal.

His handprint had, of course, been erased from the recognition plate. He chimed for admittance instead.

"Ah…. Kenobi." Dooku waved him in with a gracious half-bow as he passed beneath the lintel into once familiar surroundings.

Nothing had changed; the obsidian table, the rigid arrangements of cushions about it, the inset shelves with their books and scrolls and artifacts, the trophy case of decades' compilation. Dark appointments, softly lit. The Sentinel waited for him to speak first.

"Master," he began. "I wish to express my gratitude to you. Your insight and skill saved me from the Dathomiri poison. For this alone I am greatly indebted to you.. But I would also thank you for what guidance you bestowed upon me when I had no other lamp to my path. I owe you much, and I lack means of repayment." Formal words, if heartfelt. He dropped to one knee in the ritual posture of humility before a superior.

The acknowledgment smoothed away what bitterness lay between them. Dooku raised him with a touch to his shoulder. "I have done only what duty commanded," he assured the younger man.

A forgiveness of debt, and yet a rescinding of any personal investment. Obi-Wan inclined his head. "I would be… honored by your friendship," he offered in his turn. Nine months' hell yawned behind him. He did not look back.

The silver haired master raised a brow, genuinely pleased. "The honor would be mine, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

They bowed to one another, then, mutually liberated from the bonds of obligation.

"Indeed," Dooku added, "We have a dejarik game that has never been finished. Perhaps – when you have leisure..?"

"Of course." It was a strange alliance, and tasted of aged wine. Smooth, bitter, complex, to be enjoyed in only strict moderation.

"If you will excuse me? I have a pressing appointment in the Legislative district."

"I, too, must attend other duties."

They left together.

* * *

"You cannot be serious."

But Nield's lined face was creased with obstinate resolve. "Look," the older man repeated, drawing a finger down the glowing text-display. "It says, any authorized government official with appropriate juridical status, blah blah, or fully invested member of the clergy in the following recognized religious groups in the Republic, blah blah blah may perform the ceremony. And Cerasi and I are not selling out _that _ far. I'm damned if some politico shmuck or some hopped up minister of all-holy bantha-carpu is going to get involved. It's bad enough we need to conform to expectations. But I'm not bending my principles any further than I need to."

Obi-Wan lifted a hand to run it through his hair only to find he had practically none left. He shoved hands into opposite sleeves instead. "I'm not fully invested yet," he objected. "And you're leaving tomorrow morning."

"So we'll have the ceremony on the landing pad. Cerasi and I don't care about ambience. This is just a formality."

"I see." He shifted on the spot, sensing his avenues of escape rapidly dwindling to the single unpalatable option of flat out refusal. He sighed.

Nield slapped him on the shoulder. "So you'll do it. You're a good man, Obi-Wan. We'll see you there. And, ah, good luck or whatever you Jedi say. With the promotion, I mean."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you."

Nield hurried off, victorious, leaving the young Jedi wondering where the negotiations had gone so disastrously awry.

* * *

"You wished to see me, Master?"

"Ah. Obi-Wan. Come in, come in. Tea, we will drink."

He entered Yoda's inner sanctum, amused by the diminutive furnishings, entranced by the antique wall hangings. A noticeable layer of dust lay upon the floor and in the corners; clearly the Grand Master's disliking for droids debarred the automated cleaning staff from his private domain. The ancient master chuckled throatily at his distraction.

"Judge not by appearances, young one. Many a planetary ruler have I met, in opulence surrounded, but with blackest heart within."

By which law of inverse proportions, the old Jedi might be inferred to possess a heart of purest gold. But Obi-Wan did not need to apply such convoluted logic to reach his own conclusion. He smiled, gently. "I know better, Master."

"Hmmmph." A bowl of green-gold liquid was set before him, scented of grass. "Yarba. Not silpa, tarine. Brought you up on filthy black-leaf, Qui-Gon has. Speak to him someday I will."

Obi-Wan demurely drank what was offered, holding his peace on the subject of tea.

"Now," the ancient Master huffed, when a polite stretch of minutes had passed. "Speak we will. Young you are, Obi-Wan."

"Yes, Master." He was all too aware of it.

"Very young to be Knighted. No doubt, has the Council, of its decision," he added, hastily. "But concern, we feel, on your behalf. What feel you about this?"

Obi-Wan folded his hands in his lap. "It… worries me, Master. I know this is right- that this is the Force's will, but… I am not certain I am ready. The responsibilities of a Knight are manifold and challenging, and I still have much to learn." He dipped his head. Before now, at any point in his past, he would immediately have descended into brooding upon his own manifest lack of perfection. But not now. Now, imperfection was simply part of the world's texture, the innate pattern of his own heart. To demand more than imperfection was to demand for himself what pertained ultimately only to the Light.

"Agree, I do," Yoda rasped, though there was no censure in it. "Seldom accept one to Knighthood so early, does the order. But not unprecedented is it. A traditional solution is there, if willing you are."

Yoda knew him well. He smiled wryly. "If it's _traditional."_

A delighted chortle. Master Yoda slurped down the remainder of his tea. "Paired you will be with more experienced Master. Assigned as team, until ready you are. No shame in this, is there."

He nodded. It made sense. And there was indeed no cause for mortification: most padawans did not attain full rank until their mid-twenties. "Who is it to be?" he asked, the identity of his new quasi-mentor more a cause of trepidation than the suggestion itself.

"Hmmm. Master, must it be, without current padawan. On active duty, also – restless spirit are you, Obi-Wan. Underfoot at Temple, I will not have you."

A tiny smile. "Yes, Master."

"Good match we must make, hmm? Establish healthy rapport."

"I hope so, Master." Possibilities spun out before his mind, friends and acquaintances, revered teachers and those he knew only by formidable reputation. But there were few solo masters of the Order not committed to the Council, or on extended journey missions, or holding office such as weaponsmaster at the Temple. Except of course..

"I do not wish to join the Sentinels," he blurted. Then, recollecting his place. "Unless the Council directly commands it." He held his breath.

But the ancient one merely snorted. "A Shadow you are not, Obi-Wan."

His belly unclenched. "No, Master."

"Hhhmph. Thought I did, that suggestion you might make." An encouraging lift of the ears, permission granted.

Oh. The decision was, at least tacitly, his? He took a deep centering breath. "We say the partnership is right when the student teaches the master. By analogy, I suppose, it would be best if a Jedi team were composed of two who could also each teach the other."

Yoda nodded in approval. "Wise, you begin to be."

"So I need someone who still has much to learn, like me."

The gimlet eyes gleamed with secret mirth. "Someone, have you in mind?"

It was a daring idea, one that wended a narrow path between attachment and compassion, the past and the future, respect and friendship. "Yes, if he is willing."

* * *

They met, without need of prior agreement, without need of words, in a place where mottled light slid endlessly over the textures stone, the hush of perpetual thunder a soft battlement about their privacy.

No longer children, they barely fit within the confines of the small hollow behind the arboretum falls. Siri nestled close against him, head beneath his chin. Water tumbled, poured itself over its constant horizon in endless submission, scintillating patterns weaving and unweaving in its veiled depths. They watched it, in silence, hands entwined.

Time fell over that same unchanging horizon, future melting into present, sunset drawing near, the end of a long journey ending at the Temple's central spire in solitary vigil with the Light. Days had dwindled to hours, hours to minutes.

Siri shifted, bringing her cheek against his. One hand loosened itself from his fingers and rose to trace over his face, a soft breath of appreciation fluttering between them as she stroked the shaven skin. "I like you better this way."

"Hmph," he replied, channeling Master Yoda. He turned a little, resting his forehead against hers. Her back curved against his arm, her weight against his chest and thigh. The waterfall's roaring veil caressed them with sinuous bands of luminance. "Siri… if you hadn't come to Melida- Daan, if you hadn't found me…"

"Shhhh, _ben'ke. _Don't dwell on the past," she whispered. Then, in a huskier tone, "Just remember you owe me one, Kenobi."

He leaned in, sealing the promissory note with a solemn pledge. Light fell about them, endlessly replenished. They plummeted within its radiant streams, shields down, flowing together over destiny's summit to crash endlessly into the pool below, shattered and yet still whole. The river meandered on, obedient to its course, and they parted.

The time had come. The sun was setting witin Coruscant's frenetic dome; his vigil drew nigh. And though they were one thing, they belonged each of them more completely to the Light, claimed before birth, promised, betrothed, prepared in joy and suffering and – now for one, later for the other – to be wedded ever after to its service, unto death and even beyond.

Their hands slipped apart, last of all.


	25. Chapter 25

**Lineage XI**

* * *

**Chapter 25**

Obi-Wan ascended to the sacred Tranquillity Spire's summit, weaponless – for he had left his 'saber in Master Yoda's keeping at the foot of the long spiral stairway – and in meditative silence, the glimmering cloak of the Ieng'lis swishing gently on each step as he climbed upward. Qui-Gon's lavish gift, pressed upon its recipient with earnest and insistent affection, seemed to harbor an innate light, the threads of its weave faintly luminous, outshining even the pure white of his tunics. Upward he proceeded, at a steady gait, one perpetual right-hand turning, the path of unity, his way lit by the pale radiance of his own garment, the tiny glowrod in his hand unused and unneeded, the river stone against his breastbone pulsing with a joyful warmth. His right hand trailed along the inner column, along the inscribed carving there, the words of the Code etched in the script of a thousand languages, as though every world in the Republic had lent a tongue to this chorus. Upward and ever upward - until at last he reached the pinnacle, and the graced sanctuary there, the eyrie high above Coruscant's splendor, from which vantage point the planet's horizon appeared a light-spangled disc, as though the galaxy itself spun in majesty below. The Force swelled, radiant, full of welcome.

He knelt, the white mantle pooling about him in soft folds, and began a vigil he had waited ten, or perhaps twenty years to keep, past and future meeting together in one blessed conjugation, yearning and realization at last met in a kiss of peace, the end of this path its own beginning, a circle complete unto itself.

* * *

The Nubian Senator's apparel was far less gauche upon this, the occasion of their second meeting – but the presence of the Coruscant Opera House's newly invested general manager, a boorish profiteer whose devotion to the arts extended only as far as profitability would permit, and which had therefore already permitted several garish popular entertainments from the Rims to grace the formerly cultured stage of his venue – was a distinct black mark against the man in Dooku's exacting estimation.

But it would never do to be _rude_ to a potential ally, especially one whom he suspected of great intelligence despite his obvious lack of real breeding. In times such as these, leadership must recruit from the rank and file.

He bowed to the departing theater manager as though to a near equal, grimacing only slightly when the insufferable lout offered to comp him tickets to the present disgraceful installation of _The Pirates of Penzz'Antia, _ and breathed a small sigh of relief when he was at last closeted alone with Palpatine in the latter's small legislative office.

The politician clapped his hands together in satisfaction. "Now then," he addressed the Sentinel. "And I do appreciate your willingness to spare me a sliver of your time, Master Jedi – I have some news of interest to us both."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Yes: I have been able- through a judicious deployment of contacts and circumstances evolving within the rotunda – I shall not bore you with details – to see the Republic Defense Fund dismantled. A reformed sub-committtee is in the works, naturally, but I think we may easily expect five years' delay. The legislature is so lamentably inefficient. We need not be troubled by further seditious stirrings on that front."

Dooku smothered his flare of vexation. The idiot! He had not wanted the perfidious company of corrupt administrators dissolved – he had wanted names and locations. The Senator was clearly not cut out for espionage at all; his was a focus all too singularly trained upon results. "That is good news." He covered his dismay easily, mental shields impeccable.

Palpatine was delighted with his own cleverness. "And I wanted to say, Master Dooku, that your, ah… information… was of inestimable benefit to the republic's true good. Had we gone through the ordinary channels and procedures… well." A morose sigh. "There would be no hope of reform. Sometimes those who are in a position to do good must work _sub rosa,_ as it were."

Ah. Perhaps not such an idiot after all. Dooku bowed. "An insight shared by the privileged few."

"If there is ever any other way I may be of assistance to you, please do not hesitate to call upon me. My humble resources are at your disposal."

The silver-haired man nodded his gratitude.

"After all," the Nubian senator reasoned, "Our walks of life may be quite different… but do we not both serve the same great Purpose?"

* * *

"But why?" Mace mused, his fingers steepled togther, his ebony features stilled into a pensive gravity. "To punish or eradicate traces of failure, or to eliminate an unwanted rival?"

Beside him, the only other one present in the now empty Council chamber, Yoda traced a quite pattern in the air, gimer stick's blunt haft wavering through the imaginary knot he scribed upon an impalpable canvas. "Know why, we may not. Dark, Sifo-Dyas embraced. Attract other Dark powers he did, as friend or foe. More than this, we need not ask."

"Master." The Korun leaned forward. "You cannot be serious when you say that Moll's guess was correct. Surely there are other explanations. The Night brothers… some more obscure sect.."

"No." Yoda's gravelly tone was emphatic. "The balance: shifting has it been for long years. Felt it I have. Right, was Yarris Moll."

"They have been extinct for a millenium."

But the ancient one merely closed his eyes, lips pursed and ears drooping. "Nonetheless," he grunted, after a moment's silence. "Lurk they do, somewhere, waiting to rise again. Vigilant must we be, Master Windu. Take us off guard, they must not."

Mace bowed his head. "To think that in our lifetime, we might see the resurgence of the Sith."

"In motion is the future," Yoda replied, voice lightening. "In time of darkness, new champions does the Light raise to its defense. Still strong enough, are the Jedi. And yet untried, our newest strength. Hope is there, always."

* * *

Just before dawn, when night still blanketed the world - and the high chamber atop the Temple's central spire - in endless tranquility, a grave procession of more than a dozen climbed the stairwell in single file, cloaked and cowled, bearing the sacred emblem of their Order, of their life's service, each 'saber hilt a burnished work of art, a fit vessel for the pure tongues of flame that kindled, hidden, within its heart.

They filed into the darkened chamber and took up their places in a wide circle about its perimeter: Ali Alaan, Troon Palo, Qui-Gon Jinn, Yan Dooku, Adi Gallia, Mace Windu, and all the Council presently on planet. The Grand Master followed last, hobbling with creaking step into the dim central space. He halted before the kneeling Knight elect, raising one clawed hand in signal. The circle was suffused with sudden radiance, a consonant thrumming of one mantra in harmonic tones.

_Ommmmm._ The burning saber blades were raised, peerless torches casting emerald, sapphire and violet fire upon the pale dome above, lights in the darkness, heralds of new dawn. Rarest incense spiraled in the Force, purificatory.

Yoda's ancient voice rasped and chuckled over the words, a lively stream smoothing the stones of meaning with each succeeding generation, burbling over the riverbed of tradition, ever changing, ever the same. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, initiate of this Order, former padawan to Master Qui-Gon Jinn, former padawan to Master Yan Dooku, elect of the Light."

The young man raised his head, eyes all but level with the diminutive Grand Master, utter certainty in their depths. The ancient one smiled, then, mirroring his joy, encircling them all in the timeless moment, in the ebb and flow of Light upon mortal shores, the cadence of a liturgy more ancient than the Temple's foundation.

The words flowed, wove together, the unmaking of a braid, the fashioning of a pure white mantle, the unwinding of all paths into one. Together, and separately they spoke their parts, things learned by heart but not by rote, prescribed formula filled to overflowing by inner truth. And then, at last, in strength tempered by humility, the words of the solemn vow:

"I , Obi-Wan Kenobi, do commit myself without reservation, mind body and heart, to the service and will of the Light, in obedience to the Jedi Order, for the protection of the Republic, to the succor and benefit of all sentient beings. Thus I swear by that which is Life within me, and do cleave to this oath now unto my death and even beyond."

And when the words had spilled from him, he had no others, his whole soul having been thus poured out in adoration.

Yoda stumped forward another pace, the glint of the ritual knife in his hand. Somewhere in the circle, Qui-Gon Jinn stirred, a bittersweet longing wafting in the Force. But he stayed where he was, witness and participant, teacher and guide, but not – in this last moment- the chosen hand of destiny. Acceptance settled like morning rain; without, the sun's first ray's gilded the far horizon, illumination to the calligraphy of this rite.

Obi-Wan started when the knife was pressed into his own hand. Yoda nodded, imperious and compassionate at once. And he understood.

With a small tremor, he closed his fingers about the blade's handle, pulling the dangling braid taut with his left hand, raising the honed edge of the knife to the plait's base. A single thrust, and it fell away, coiling upon the floor, chestnut and sun bleached gold, adorned with threads and beads, the long record of a winding upward journey.

His eyes met Qui-Gon's, and there was only pride and a strange welling of something softer, undefined in the tall man's gaze.

The snap of Yoda's green blade brought him back to the central rite. The thrumming emerald line hovered near his right shoulder, his left, and then above his head, to be raised in a sharp salute. "By right of the Council, by will of the Force, I dub thee Knight of the Republic."

* * *

As romantic backdrop to nuptial ceremonies, the Coruscant Southsector Intergalactic Spaceport was certainly an unconventional choice. Droid baggage porters skimmed along the concourses, pushing hover-trolleys laden with precarious luggage towers; harried commuters grumbled and squeezed their way along the pedestrian swift tubes; blaring announcements of arrivals and departures echoed off the vast girders above the terminal boarding area.

Obi-Wan ran the gauntlet of crowds and moving vehicles, arriving at the pre-arranged rendezvous only seven minutes before the Republic Service Corps passenger freighter was scheduled to depart. Only Cerasi and Nield, and a handful of their comrades remained behind, obstinately refusing to embark until they had finished their last piece of business.

"Forgive my tardiness," the young Jedi panted. A cataclysmic traffic jam in the free-fly lanes, a detour due to construction, and – he was loathe to admit – his own absorption in the congratulatory enthusiasm of friends and colleagues after the Knighting ceremony – had conspired to ruin any hope of arriving punctually for this appointment.

"I thought you were bringing Qui-Gon," Nield said, peering over his shoulder as though expecting the tall Jedi master to materialize from the crowd.

"He's docking the air car," Obi-Wan explained. He had simply leapt over the passenger side onto the sky-dome's arcade roof, as a time saving measure. "And we'd better make haste." Even as he spoke another warning chime sounded. Droids slammed hatches and chivvied stragglers on board. Maintenance bots swarmed the freighter's hull. Guide lights flashed on the still-open ramp.

"Right," Neild shoved the data-pad into his hands. "Short version." He seized Cerasi's hands between his own. "We filed the papers via holonet; just need an imprimatur."

A good diplomat could cut to the heart of a matter with great speed and acuity. The new Knight skimmed the contract terms, reading it as a treaty or an armistice agreement, seeking the most essential elements of truce. The formulary was florid and redundant, and needlessly sentimental. He decided to improvise.

"Do you Cerasi, and you Nield, commit yourselves without reservation, mind body and heart, to the service and mutual good of the other, in obedience to your conscience, for the protection of your honor and love, to the succor and benefit of those under your care - swearing this by that which is Life within you, from now unto your deaths?"

The bride and groom had no prior experience with wedding ceremonies, and so accepted his radical innovation without a blink. "Yes," they chorused, casting the other an apologetic grimace, a mutual smile in which was embedded two decades of shared suffering and textured private meanings.

Good enough. The Droid steward was shrieking at them to embark. Obi-Wan hastily made a conclusion, in the same extemporaneous style. "I hereby declare you man and wife. May the Force be with you."

There was no time for the customary niceties. Nield got a quick peck on the cheek before he hustled off, shepherding their witnesses up the ramp ahead of him. Obi-Wan swiftly appended his thumbprint, signature and – with an absurd swell of pleasure – rank and title – to the holodoc and shoved the 'pad into Cerasi's hands.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything." And sealed it with a very tender and unexpected salutation. "Good bye. If you're ever in our sector, drop by."

She dashed up the ramp behind her people, red hair swinging over one shoulder, boots echoing loudly on the hard deck plates. The hatch creaked closed, the droids released the magnetic anchors, and the massive hulk drifted off toward the tarmac and the safe-launch zone.

"Well," Qui-Gon's mellow voice remarked, behind him. "Generally, it is the groom and not the officiant who receives the kiss, - but besides that, your performance was quite inspired. You might consider moonlighting."

He turned, swallowing down a hard lump for not the first time that day, and feeling suddenly glad for company. "Thank you. But I'll keep the day job."

"When's the reception?" the tall man inquired as they turned back to the crowded councourse.

"Whenever we manage to pay a visit, I think." He cast a longing look at the caff vendor's cart just across the way.

"No, no," Qui-Gon said, taking his arm. "I have tea in quarters."

"Quarters?" Obi-Wan repeated, bemused. "I'd entirely forgotten to request new ones."

"You still have much to learn. Fortunately. I did not."

* * *

"Of course, you are under no obligation, should you prefer your own space."

Obi-Wan gaped at the familiar spectacle. Worn furnishings, greenery peeking from every nook, table stained and scarred by decades of abuse, meditation cushions, and the balcony doors flung wide to admit a warm evening breeze. "How…. How did you secure these rooms again.?"

"I must preserve the confidentiality of my contacts," Qui-Gon smugly replied. "What do you think?"

"It's…perfect. I _am_ impressed." He was irrationally pleased.

"I've already claimed the smaller bedroom, and I will brook no opposition from the younger generation."

"Master-"

"Ah." Qui-Gon held up a hand, quelling all protest. "I have seniority. The debate is closed. Now: are you still in dire need of tea?"

Obi-Wan allowed the slow smile to spread from eyes to lips and thence through the Force to the very walls of the quiet chamber. "Perhaps not. Let's watch the sun set."

They passed in silent accord onto the balcony, and leaned against its rail. Below, the city-planet hustled and bustled in the trammels of its glittering pomp. Above, the stars wheeled in their ordained paths, passionless and perfect. Between the tawdry lights of the metropolis and the distant beacons of the heavens, a glorious star blazed in splendor, filling the dome of Coruscant's skies with melting color, supernal glory.

Qui-Gon laid a hand upon his former student's shoulder, and they looked on- in hope and wonder and a simple, radiant contentment.

**END BOOK XI**

**END of LINEAGE series**

* * *

_Author's note: But the end is the beginning, from a certain point of view. The sequel series to this story will be titled Legacy, to be posted at a future date on this site. -rb_


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